into solstice sun

away for a moment. we wake before we would have liked to swim into the sunrise of the shortest day. freezing sea as still as glass. I slip under and feel the burning through the skin into my bones. on the surface hues of blue give way to pastel pinks and yellows. morning clouds and a slight chance of hypothermia. I retreat into the refuge of my own arms and a towel.

I peal the paper from the ceiling of the bedroom of my youth. pages torn from a book I never read flake onto the bed; reluctant leaves, late autumn breeze. nine years of mould and long forgotten cracks left by the weather or the weight of possums in the attic now exposed. I catch a glimpse of my former hopes and wistful disillusionment in the pathetic fractures of the paint. there are bruises behind every postcard and other paper relic cast from former lives upon the wall. this whole room needs an exorcism. am I ready to grow up?

the leader of the free world plays with world war three for fun. I read the news as it comes and watch us bomb our way to hell. you can tune in when you want. there's always something else. what world will I wake to when I get up in the morning?