Healing is a form of necromancy;
the revival of dead cells,
a past pulling itself together,
or a future tearing itself apart.
I like to believe in the heat death of the universe;
in a maximum of entropy, an expansive ending of silent matter
drifting through the cold expanse of space.
If you blur your eyes the falling rain looks like grain on a VHS tape,
or the static from when televisions had dials
and you could tune in or tune out of the background.
I used to think I could translate those shifting pixels
if I sat very still and kept my eyes open.
I’d built the shapes from Lego bricks that my gran kept in a tin.
We only had two colours, red and white,
Enough old curved bricks to build a lighthouse
that I’d sit beside the window;
a beacon to let the world know
it’s safe to come to shore in the sunroom.

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