Becoming a senior at forty-five,
the spectator shoes, arthritic joints
Exhaustion wearing its shiny-arsed
suit in an upright seat
An angle of old eyes holding
the plane’s descent above
sunrise, above cloud stalks hanging
on the chill indigo air.
Inside the horizon someone is singing
I am marking the binary cloth, circles
and lines, transcript of a digital heaven.
Such reams of Pacific cloud
to announce our entrance.
First island of the new world
a brown smudge a hundred kilometres
off the Malibu coast.
Inside the singing someone is hiding
No time now to finish the in-flight
bio of a wild Strummer,
seducer of other men’s women.
I scribble a tapa for Topper,
First one kicked from the band
for his habit, your habit of subtraction.
He pisses himself going through Customs
ahead of me. This is not an act,
even if it is.