Iain Britton

Early before a new day’s untethering

Early before a new day’s untethering,

I’m up window-listening to the garden,

talking intimately. The

worst offenders at breaking the night’s

silent code are the birds, the drunk racers

doing wheelies, a plane pulsing red lights.

My thoughts sound factory made. I

pressure them into some coherent pattern

of consciousness. I’m

thinking of bowler hats for some goddamn

reason. I’m thinking of the lunacy of staring

into the black eyes of

neighbours’ windows,

visualising the privacies of sleep,

violating their behavioural habits, their

worlds within rooms. The valley

somnambulates down the road to the

narrow intrusion of a mangrove swamp.

Containers on the wharf are being carted,

hydraulically

dropped into tower blocks. A

commuter train resonates on/off

an iron bridge towards Britomart. This

isn’t quite the moment to contemplate the dead, to

demask them for who they are, or

how they’re related, or if they

look like me. I’m playing at

prodding the morning awake. A Thai girl

walks to work under a flashing white sign

of a bird with long halogenic legs. She

massages my thinking and

the sun

island hops, lighting up the clouds. I

watch shadows shrink –

the morning rolls over and

the digestive remains of the night shrivel up.

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