Nostalgia For Euclid

ARTWORK: Meg Warhurst

by Geoff Sawers

I was born on the floor, translucent black
church bells on a frosty night and the distant surf
a French horn in the dirt, a snail's shell.

Time slows and dilates, recurves on the weight of a shadow
a Chinese lamp at the turn of the stair.
We're tied back-to-back and we'll live that way.

If I was born to lose, slug-trails of ice
drill their spells in the gardens of Osiris
cross thresholds and blaze right through me.

Now is never now. Everywhere I go I still carry
my child and he's nervous, he fidgets.
I pick up the radio sometimes long after midnight

in my metal-filled teeth, I wish I could tune them.
No one can see me here on the bench in the park in the dark
but they twist their necks about to nail that fucking sound