John Gillies

In the stockyards of the stars,
they shave the comet's hair
prior to execution. The aurora
shrieks in the darkness. Behind bars,
asteroids mill. The air
freezes their breath.
On the event horizon
hangs the unmade instant of their death.

Luncheon-meat sandwiches in Tupperware.
Brown's Bay Primary. A pool of piss.
Chalk dust in sunshafts. Pallid blue
walls that echo Mr. Rees's stare -
"I really doubt if we can find a pair
of clean shorts for a boy as big as you" -
On the event horizon
only this.
Crush down the tears that menace.