Howard Firkin
I want to set the final full stop—pop!—
right here. I want to tie a ribbon round
the lot. Let not another line be found.
I want this tedious pretence to stop.
I’ve written all I can. I need to heal.
So many full moons shine their way into
my front room; same old eyebrow raised as though
it had some knowledge that I’d never know.
Old fraud. As if it cared any more than you,
as if it could be bothered how I feel.

A nightly possum rattles through the trees
and at my window, peers and disappears.
It’s made blurred possum sense of what it sees,
the secretless, unmeaning sounds it hears.