dear john



your nebula tires coming home

is it that stars have fallen

or did we rise over ourselves

i get lost in the crowd

which is so important

to the crowd

i hold out my hand and there seems to be

somewhere to put an end

i have a number that means

i don’t understand faces

therefore i don’t recognise

why we know each other so little so well

the night that comes up from our lives

follows us where we stop

to shed a few crumbs

and look at what is left of the horizon