an Aotearoa poetry journal | ISSN 2744-3248

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Tarot #07
Tarot #06
Tarot #05
Tarot #04
Tarot #03
Tarot #02
Tarot #01

Pass the Dutchie

We went back
To tidy up
Take a look around
Appreciate the fact
Our bones are still wet

We got high
So high we spoke
Incomprehensible soliloquies
Spiky things
They hardly mean a thing

I closed the windows
It was important
Who knows
What will get in

I thought about dirt enclosed in
Underground pots
Made of concrete
Every tree in London is a bonsai

I chose a new
Lucky number
It was important
Who knows
Number eleven

Too many strange things
Have happened
We can’t come back here
Not again

When we left we left
The door unlocked
Like it like

Open to the push
We walked
Faces illuminated
By our phone screens

Skilled peripheral walkers
Barely look back
We leave access where possible