Ian McBryde

The nets. The horses, the nets.

We were wrong. There is no white house.

Indoors, a toyless boy is dreading sundown.

No phones. Poles down, the road closed.

There must be one kiss you cannot remember.

Listen. The woman with no name is singing.

How black is your magic? Call me.

We drag our tragedies behind us on invisible strings.

Back to the coast. We were safe there.

Our guards are facing the wrong way.

A lonely man locks up his shop, but then what?

The nets. the horses, the nets.