Black olives, the uneasy strokes of water

are a catwalk to the promised land

where jazz bands sing above the reeds.

Weeds display a roll of parking tickets

and wear cricket boxes like clouds

bowing to the horizon of mother's eyes.

On the volcanic island a table cloth

is moth-eaten like a street of rage

and two men in a cage block

the smiling light. Tonight, trampled by horses,

and pulled by a slice of toast,

ghosts haunt the room like poetry.

All the while my father is beside me

disguised as the exact centre of the world.