Finally you convince me
to take that road trip
west toward the bight
and some perspective,

firm in your belief that
if illness is an enemy
it gives away its weak point
like any structure under stress.

There are many ways to win
or lose hearts and wars — we know
this; we weaponise our tongues
and minds for both, arrive throbbing

in a town of shopfront slumber,
overtaking lanes distracted,
careening off into the scrub.

Spend a night in a roadside motel,
a night like all the time in elevators
added up. The TV reception sneezing,

strange texture and rhythm, white pepper
jitter, depending on where I stand.

Depending on where you stand
could it be my signal interfered with?

Finally sleep convinces me
to take time out of time,
west where my army waits,
where I am learning to learn,

a strategy in the militarisation
of breathing: a method
of invasions and retreats,

each pulse delivered as thrust,
some circadian escape plan
in action.

If I return to GMT+10, I will shed
a private sliver of me here, left to
appear like january distorts air,

clockwork jerking back
on itself

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