I want to make
less sense, or maybe
no sense at all,
be a base-runner
leaping from phone-box
to window frame,
hillside to hammock;
word and wordsmith
unravelling a long scarf
whose colours stretch
half way round the world,
leaping so high
gravity gives up

and we spin out into a darkness
blacker than an unlit candle,
as bright as lava
the moment before
the volcano bursts
and the people on the hillside
have no time to run,
only stand and stare
and wait for their time
to burn.