Movement by Rory Jones

So that’s it then, all packed?

The wind sighed like a dog

And set off sirens of tiny

Abstract creaks, mechanical, starting

From the window

Sill and down the stairs that craved tread and

Thus leaned heavily unto themselves,

Imagining weight,

And I thought of a phrase no

A joke my dad had said once about

The words he spoke entering my brother’s

Ear and exiting the other with so little

Friction they might as well

Have whistled –

I cross the hollow room towards the light panel

To see the outside tree line

Lean as they are pushed delicately

Until there’s hush and they regain posture,

Absolved.