by Alan Jude Moore


there is no language now

no nationhood taking up space between us

we have seen everyone

come and go


like small fires in the distance


we have no confessions to make

wait in the laneways

organise ourselves in front of the door

and work on excuses


on the side of passing buses

there are slogans that can be used


and on the funny pages

we are deep in the vernacular

of borderless zones

consumed by passing over


directed through the radio waves


we no longer touch each other

we engage like drifting ash

disappears on the skin


we are rising against the mountain

picking up speed tail-lights fade

we have no indicators

no blazing trail where we have been

art by Sarah Quigley