some are drawn to kill all their enemies

I am tired. I am standing in my room. I am
going to clean the toilet with seawater. I have

been working all day. I work so that I can
gain enough power to trap myself in revolving

doors. Now I have finished work. The fog will
gather around me in disgrace. I wait before

taking my shoes off. I have eyelids as thick as
banquets. I hate taking my shoes off. I want to

walk under a roof for miles. I believe that stones
should be gathered at the back of rooms. I hate

looking at my feet.

 

 

some are drawn to press against windows

on a Wednesday and already she is stupefied
by how clear the lawn is, full and big with

her hands. She has completed the circle of
her own captivity. She is content to observe

houses falling through houses. All the dead
are big in the sky and her hands are steepled

as their walkway. She would kiss the buried
houses if she could admit that her knees were raw

from being hidden. Outside the trees are falling
through trees. Those years of echoing. Toes

forward. The glass against and through which
possibilities are deployed.

 

 

Gregory Kan is a writer who straddles living in Auckland and Wellington. He completed an MA in Creative Writing at the IIML, and was a co-editor of Turbine in 2012. His work is featured or forthcoming in the publications Brief, Minarets, Otoliths, Percutio, Turbine, and Sport. His interests include snacks, and power.