Tim White
Sometimes I’m there, sometimes I’m not
I am a gestating fungus of multiple sonnets like an exploding eye in a library or a trochus maculatus of gloves left over from the Quantum tea service. I live on a beach of cyber-shells, ostriches and cyclostomeia. It smells like sandal wood, ink and sheet music.
Odometers chant in the unfocused depths of the green and magenta sea.
Somedays a radiant lemur appears to bi-focalise the chanting odometers. At other times she strikes a gong made of sand and burning tyres. When the gong sounds the odometers fall silent.
At night the sea is switched off. Fish swim from their underwater homes like shades of phosphorescent joy to flicker amongst shafts of watery light.
Every day I either depart for the city or arrive before the train that leaves everyday. Sometimes I’m there and sometimes I’m not.
When it arrives in the city I am not there. When I return home I am there again, looking for my footprints along the broken trail either to or from the city.