Flâneuse from aus

I can’t see the tiles

pressing hard into my back.

The outline of the railing blurs,

A rusted doorknob, grabbed

at by my toddler hands, my burnt barista hands,

His hands,

A doorknob on a peeling

yellow door. Disappearing

behind scorched flesh fumes,

Stone’s cold fists punch,

The railing stretches away so,

I cannot pull myself up,

I cannot grasp it,

The moon pulls at the ocean,

Tides move for it,

His hands glow,

Touch the wet sand underneath,

I ripple, a peculiar rush

slippery skin flush, cut on jagged

shells, purple and inviting,

I should pluck them,

Clutch a broken thing in my hand,

His hand, pressing.

Tin roof guards the twinkle

of stars so gamma rays won’t pinprick

the woolly hemming coming undone,

The fish below nibble at prawn bait, already hooked,

And the moon is with me,

Tugging.