September 2018

Back to Issue 4


By Justin Lowe

you write lists.

you place mounds of salt on window panes.

you speak to the corpses of flies in the dust pan.

time is always outwitting you,

you take it with everything like some take sugar.

the world has little use for your kindness, its efficacy,

being largely invisible, unquantifiable, self-evident.


I have tried to look for the tell-tale signs

out of the corner of my dreamy eye –

the brief pause, the vacant stare, the soft sigh of despond –

but apart from the occasional lament for a missing button

you appear unflappable, unphased, unwitting, uncanny,

in fact I can think of a dozen adjectives to apply

and all with that prefix of negation,

which either makes you remarkable, or not,

I can’t decide.


I visit you in the small hours.

it is a long journey and I am always tired.

you offer me something that melts in my hand

and I wake wondering,

who does those pointless chores now?

who sweeps the world clean,

tells the corpses of flies they were cherished?

you who lived so singularly,

whose friends were all past deeds

spoken of with an air of triumph,

you are a member of a tribe now.

I only hope they are kind.