Knife is a tool. You rinse it. You put it away. I say, “Move it.” Anyone who films the edge wants a different harbour. I say, “Move it.” Phone goes in my pocket on the second ring. Not a landing. I say, “Move it.” A hospital voice, someone else’s father. I say I’ll tell the skipper. I say, “Move it.” I do not explain my face to the café window. I say, “Move it.” There is a case on the quay that does not belong to a landing. I say, “Move it.” I say, “Move it.” That is all the politics I have in me before ice melts. I say, “Move it.” This town does not look up for a chorus. I say, “Move it.” We look at boxes. Boxes feed people. Choruses feed themselves. I say, “Move it.” I say, “Move it.”
