The whole wide world is tugging
at my skirts with hands
that I can’t believe,

I’m pushing out
and I’m pulling away
almost perfectly,
faster than The Man that’s sprinting
after me in my mirror, shaking
His fist, mouth flapping
like a silent shoe.

The streets look like great grey canals
from here, they burst
their banks in a cotton flood
of thick grandfather beard
then lose their shape, colourless plains
splashed with brown and grey
that fade

and out
and out I go,
I wonder what it was that meant
I never felt at home,
as I watch

our waste hum
around our planet
like buzzwords in the cloud,

and up here with you, my sun,
how can anyone feel proud?