to Sydney‍

I promise I’m not like one of those poets who cares about the moon unless you care about the moon in which case I’m one of those poets who cares about the moon. did you know my friend told me across the water there are children who are being turned into the moon by the bushel and her hand rested on the bulletproof vest of someone she went to high school with before he turned into a redacted line. and did you know that on fish island where they live in warehouses a man described the party as the community’s watering hole as small hands held together so strong they might as well be the moon but the area is marked for luxury developments. in hackney wick I walked across the narrow channel and overheard the boatman talking about a protest while sanding down a ladder into some kind of weapon. I promise weapons are just ways to get us into the moon but I think italo calvino already said that and better. listen, in the night I dream of my father dying and of the black cat that was sleeping on the bed dying because we let it out by mistake and I dream of everyone dying usually unless it’s people who are actually dead or dying in which case I don’t dream of them at all. poets don’t have metaphors for cancer. poets also don’t have metaphors for things that are unfair. poets also don’t have metaphors for the moon unless you count the jellyfish. I think that’s what it’s all about really. maybe this is mercy. outside the moon.