Sport 42: 2014
A long day, a short week.
You consider a road map of track-changes
and comments. You love comments.
Louis comes by. ‘Are you
batting your eyelashes at me?’
he says. Nick comes by.
‘So this is where rumours start,’ he says.
You study your collection of pencils.
How do you say Staedtler? You use your
bicultural pencil sharpener from Paora.
You draw a line. Soon it is a coastline,
with waves against a rocky shore.
Jenny Bornholdt is probably there
somewhere. Trees appear
and a cosy hut, but no people
because you can’t figure people.
Rebecca comes by.
‘I thought that noise
was you sleeping,’ she says.
It’s Nina’s three-year-old, Ned, deep
in his pushchair. His sound-asleep
sounds sound like waves
summing up a headland.
You need the toilet, so you add
a water tank. What’s that about?
Someone has written something
in the sand. It was there before
the beach covered it up,
before the sketchy flax
engulfed the foreground.
Fall of Aztecs writer to L for Aus.
What means this infernal code?
A message from the gods?
A clue to a crime
page 141 not yet committed?
Your eyes search the screen’s oceans.
Your fingers fumble for the keys.
Something locks or unlocks.
Shades of brightness; hands
clapping in a gorge.
No, they are butterflies, butterflies
wagging like fingers, like
files queued for deletion.
Their wings murmur in tongues
—thrumming from a womb.
Oh, the beautiful pregnant globe,
its terrains glistening with gel.
You adjust the listening device
until the heartbeats come in unison.
Wow. The whole world is in time!
Its pulse is ready to be born!
Wait, it’s not a pulse, it’s the phone.
Kia ora. Louis! [Flutter] Of course
I can send you the file. Now?
You put down your pencil. Your hands
open their wings.