I.
I would talk to the man
holding onto the door
like the reins of a horse he was holding for a friend.
most mornings I would
find him stood like this.
I hold tight to my schedule like he would his door,
and so we would talk around the topic.
only once did I ask him
why the door must be held open,
or who or what lived inside,
but you interrupted us and the moment passed.
after that morning it felt somehow natural,
like the light coming through,
to find him stood like this gazing at a point
just above the traffic,
where the sun glints off the chassis,
and the big birds swoop at the little birds.
if I happened to be walking with you,
the man and I would talk as though
you weren’t there, and that was fine,
because that world has passed,
the world of introductions:
we are all wise to each other now.
II.
the rise came as suddenly
as the dark night fell,
a fat moon lolled in the pines.
I found myself unable to step over the corpse.
I may have been a horse by this time,
green apples fermenting in my gut,
a fragile grace, imperious,
eyes black as coal, flared nostrils,
heavy dew-dripping lashes.
the earth never seemed so steady or the sky so close.
the corpse lay face down,
just a lump of t-shirt and torn denim,
the topography like the chronology a little Bible-hazy.
no sex no age like dreams use a comb.
I remember the ground crunched under my feet,
a riot of detail that amounts to nothing in the end.
unable or unwilling to step over the corpse,
or go backwards with my queer fetlocks,
I stood immobilised by my better angels.
the best whispered turn back,
go tell the watchman.
the second best whispered step over step over.
but I chose to walk around,
with my clip and my clop,
and met their father on the rise.
Justin Lowe lives on Gundangurra land in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney where for 18 years he edited international poetry blog, Bluepepper. His ninth collection, San Luis, was released through Puncher&Wattmann in late 2024. The poem included here is from a work in progress, Owl in the Gutters.
2026 Bloomsday Supplement - Table of Contents
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