Where new writing finds its voice

Stitch and unpick

Kate Kilalea

With one foot already through the turnstile, night turns in
and flies board the fruit trucks at the edge of town.

The muezzin unbuttons the gates: it is late June.
Passengers escape with the wind and empty cartons

their hats and scarves
made immodest by the gale.

Outside, gulls hollow out slow arcs.
I shake and hang up behind the bathroom door,

hemmed still in half-sleep
with ivy leaping like frogs over the house.