Or

Toby Fitch

 

The wedding band on your finger or the gold

watch you’re wearing was most likely produced

a billion years ago by two neutron stars

colliding. That’s pretty cool.

 

The pretty new band produced by bilious fingers

was wearing gold stars. For what seemed like

most years you watched them colliding at too-

cool weddings.

 

Stars like years. Producers make a pithy billion

as they watch your neurons go bandy from a

collision with the wearable cold. You get

goldfinger weeding.

 

The production of golden years bond together in

college. Perky, you wore a swatch and Bill’s ions

glid toward you like moist sago. You steered

wide of his newty fingers.

 

Ghouls burst from a Nerf gun. Stars bend. Prod a

duck and it’ll cool down. Yours’ll wade out too,

or, like, wear you out late. It’s a collage and a pity

you haven’t been watching fings err.

 

 

Toby Fitch is poetry editor of Overland. His books include Rawshock, which won the Grace Leven Prize for Poetry 2012, Jerilderies and, most recently, The Bloomin’ Notions of Other & Beau (Vagabond 2016). He lives in Sydney.

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