I am a museum
and everything is in the dark.
I feel for the walls,
still ignoring the grainy voice of
nowhere. I hold out a black map and look in a place I’ve never been
for the colour of lightning. My chances are losing
The museum is exhibiting the way I breathe.
The warm air is soft
and bleeds easily. Black is the burnt smell of all questions that got
answers by falling onto the slow barbeque of time.
‘Nowhere’ is still a voice
somewhere in my head, where I open walls
with fists and call it the art of hidden anger -
this has me biting into my breath, for the taste of youth
in my breaking voice.