If I lose my temper I may never find it.

It will melt into another person. A person

drowned in seaweed and oil. A person

without a home.

​

I could sleep on a washing line, or on a

rope in the sea. The beach is my doss

house, the city a memory. The sky peels

away, as though dry emulsion flaking

from distemper.

​

There is nothing there to replace the

clouds but the sound of a shell held to your

ear. The ocean inside us is red. Our veins are

full of starfish and plastic.

​

The doors in your house are open. The

doors in my house are closed. You prefer

landscapes, I prefer portraits. There is

really no difference between us.