Hopscotch In George St City

We are making, from the new pasts

Of our missteps, electrocardiograms

This is the bloody art

A kind of duel

Back to back

Twelve apostolic paces to the self

Turn blindly, blindly fire

A crabbing angularity

The wound bent

In throes like love

Remove the slug

From where it sits

Inside the chest

Throw the stone

Hop step jump

Still avoiding falling space debris

And the prismatic alacrity

Of tall, unwieldy buildings