This is Friday high up
Water falls between walls and air fills with clutter.
Pushing off the green walls into the suits.
All those adjustments, just walking through, the snaps, the closures.
Cast always waiting, the outside disappears.
Your hand says to me - a wish replacement - do we need this air?
We have touched all sides, bounced back here.
We have eaten nothing, all of it.
Bones carved like the moon, days deep as the sea of tranquillity.
The doors are laughing as we kick them, they've won.
We've conquered light and sleep, now we wait for the great vacuum of infinity.
It looks like the cathedral and the park - it is a sandstone replica.
Monkeys draw on the footpath.
A car out of breath, the machine that kicks sand in the eyes.
We've eaten the manual after ripping the spine, it was a green one.
If this is hell, it's fun.
Plugged in, the rabbits died - and we are the aliens.
As if a voice has said, Are you sure you are making the right decision?
Finally, we are falling between the walls.
Other poems by Jill Jones
Poems from 'Ash is Here, So are Stars'
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