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This poem is taken from PN Review 277, Volume 50 Number 5, May - June 2024.

Ochre Pitch Hal Coase
Earlier versions of six of these stanzas originally appeared in Prototype 5 (Prototype: London, 2023)

There is a selflessness in any past, at root,
it will not fold. Tonight, there are the pines
placed as though falling for each other
and across the way, the neighbouring roof
snubs a sky of blues and an excitable red.
I would like to give this light a name, call it
something, learn it good. But it won’t answer.
It only gives itself, beside the water pump,
which rattles on: enough, enough, enough

I had taken the ferry, and on the ferry, Chiara
had said: the colony. And I had said: family album,
roots, schooling, tea and jam, the white veranda
on which my uncle and his brother are burning
citronella oil to keep mosquitoes at bay, while nana
cricks a cigarette in a gloved hand, years learning

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