clarke quay

for Claire

.

wish I could write songs.
then I’d never stumble over words
tripping over truths like turnstiles.

we’re here for our ghosts.
when night falls I’ll see you in the dark
your hair on fire. I cut mine
but the roots are still smouldering.
these people walking past, in the vague rain
who wouldn’t look twice
at us rubbing kerosene into our skin
eating matches. we’ll never burn them out of us.

you want to put out the fire in the river.
no, I say. no. no. you’re gonna drown.

I can see life passing by behind your head
like a row of coloured shophouses on the other bank.