May your train be delayed.

And as you stand on the cracked black platform
may your feet and neck be warm enough

to lift your chin.


What a miracle it is

to see a sunrise 

without our bodies bursting into two, twenty, two hundred and two irreparable pieces.
What a miracle it is

to see a sunrise

without surging

into a mania of writing and painting and scheduling and chasing– trying to match

this endless blue, this fire anew, bronzing the gum trees and licking the warehouses.

The radiance is simultaneously present and pending,

a gold that saturates the city skyline with as much ambivalence

as it skims our cheeks and kisses the beaks

of the parrots in their square of park, gorging amongst the leaves

unashamed of their busyness

speaking and eating and resting and watching.
Squinting now, I long to declare something absolute

to be resolute

to hold some certainty

in this ever changing bright.
Yet every sunrise

is a secret conversation

that cannot be painted, penned or pinned —

and still it invites us somehow

to try.
Sun we are

and to sun we must return

every day


eludes us

and makes us

rewrite our timetables

no two sunrises


an exact

twenty-four hours apart.
May your train be delayed.