James Walton #111 I could not remember the name of Twister

the wind is in from Antarctica

banging the sheet metal of night

I threw a ball up into the sky

watched the inevitable fall

of civilisations through clouds

where mercury boiled

but turned on an alchemist’s anvil

filling teeth in truth composite

an afterthought in rain

lapsed for thawed pretensions

the way a tree believes an absolute

in the felling bounce of one hand

ambidextrous for any reverberation

as mesmerising as the smell of leather

balanced precariously between

the shot tower’s dust

and the bend to another colour

over the tight rope of a stranger’s inscribe

where I swear you were carrying

the swirl of a mandala

softly as a shell less egg

catch it catch it you’re out!