by Tom Saer

My back in plasters, heading back.

I find some swans three years ago, they start to turn around my ears.

I saw the other world in water trees, the ripple spreads, its secondary eyes are open. Close and open irises to me,
reflection past the open tree.
Someone must have taken out a spade and done some work.

The earth is a black bird, red beaks,
the world looks red…

The seagull sees I’m carrying his master’s short stories. I watch him meet me, carry on hunting, very good.

The sky stays grey for Frankie and his friends, his wife sings at the desk and in the bathroom — I had to leave the book.

Outside now again. The one important part to do, I speed up, still tranquillity.

I am so close, arrive, I made good time. I am a nothing kind of man!

The lord’s trees call my name, they call out nothing, hands on eyes in sky.

Some snow is muddy on the ground.
I clean myself, I thank the tree I grasped, I find a stick to bury in the cloud.

I give my vision back, I find my spirit, nineteen years and it is here.