on the floor, watching
the ceiling, clouds pressing through
the windows. All afternoon
three helicopters have been circling
the harbour, passing in
and out of view. Light wavers
on the ceiling, the formidable
sound of blades
filling the air like wind.
IN THE FUTURE
The road curves and an explosion of sparrows, all seemingly coming from one point of origin, ten or twenty sparrows flying out in opposite directions, like they multiplied, like one bird turned itself into a whole experience of birds, flying all over the road.
The thing about sparrows is that they don’t move. Not except for flying. I’ve never caught the movement between one pose and the next, the moment where they're not frozen. Statues. Still, looking left down the street. Still, looking up. Still, head buried in feathers. In the air, gone.
Alexandra Hollis lives in Wellington, and writes poems about dirt. She spent 2015 studying towards a MA in Creative Writing at the IIML. Her work has appeared in Sweet Mammalian and Contrappasso.