Opal Card
tap on //
The chrome of your
commute
LED overhead
unfettered coolant
pumped
onto skin to blow
like no wind that has ever kissed
an ocean.
Time does not belong
to you, passenger.
Skip that rock, a
plunder of stone plucked from the sunlit world
returning in three
easy skips to grind along the depths, to grind
you smooth of edges.
The passengers’
dreams catch on seats they nod the whispered prayers
of SMS chimes &
fat rat xenosise / 2U / brickabrak / our man flint /
old
skool telephone.
Outside—the feather of a cockatoo it banks and gusts in eddies.
tap off //
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