From my third-floor hotel balcony I could reach out almost to touch the mountain. It seems such a good neighbour. When I walk out by the Li River, the mountain follows me, shadowing my footsteps. I watch the river-boats working their ways across the current towards night-moorings, the fisherman homeward-bound with his cormorants. Poetry by John Allison
Clean on the surface
Therefore he can come to Carnegie.
Therefore he can see me.
five kilometres
I don’t go there because that is their home.
He wouldn’t mind but his wife would.
I am a bird, he is a stone.
Sometimes I could kill my father.
for the clothes to finish the wash cycle.
This is called catching up with my father.
you just don’t do that
talk about your dirty laundry in public.
my stories, pretty well.
in the films he sees, the books he reads.
is conversation light and frothy as foam.
If you bring up anything difficult.