Oliver Ackland: Round Up. Make Nice

Shuffle and stop.
Dust to the sun, shakes, lusts for the moon,
grinning, takes off.
Boy watches closely, mad eyes wide,
and sharp and tongue

Boots move at a rumble of white,
holding hands with proud thumb prince
under nowhere waltz panic.
Grind their teeth,
Loose their feet and
Shout.

Slow lace choir smoke oils.
The machines that blur
day and night
swing almighty heavy orange hands.

Light of heart friends trade
damaged rope,
throw scotch bottle bookends.
Tireless light bulbs,
painted glue stories.