In my local beer, the froth

forms eerie shapes of jellyfish and

clouds on days they didn't fall.

I dipsy-doodle around in my mind;

there are people fucking dying and 

we're out here listening 

to sounds of the seventies. It’s a great

testimony to belief, when,

by some neon brainwave, you’re

hell-bent on staying alive. 

The delights of children

are sharp in the haze 

of things that move and are changed.

With the brightness comes their next days; 

it’s endings that I’m afraid of. 

In a young cousin’s borrowed room, 

I am a child I no longer know.

So when my aunt asks, "Are you well?" 

the sky meets the sea,

the tears are endless and free.

Fleetwood Mac and Joy Division flare

on the radio. It is a risk,

it is a song tucked away for later,

when we can look without 

hands pressed against our eyes.