-
the moon subsumes the sun.
Act Two, scene four, line 1.
T HE C ORE
Hawk sight and dog scent, plus
the touch of Keller,
might help us
to travel chemical, to reach
a bottom quark,
or even dark
matter for that matter.
Throw in the blind
for their hearing, (and,
if he doesnât mind,
a raging chef), then my goodness
we would soar
high, or even bore
like moles into the molten.
S UBURBIA
Unexpectedly the ice-stone
sank, where the heart berths,
tethered if you know your anatomy
to a desolate suburb
of flat and featureless terrain
in the brain â without arched mountains
as a backdrop, without caressing
sycamore for shade â a pastel
zone, a wither zone.
And to dissolve the stone
he sought the chaos of the centre,
where crickets shrieked,
where tree stems offered sweet
latrines for dog and drunk,
where rhythm beat the terror
out of night, alone.
F OUR
Sevenths
A LIENATION
Safely placed on the moon
I watched the earth spill
yolk, as it split into two.
Dust smoked, and cups
of crust lost poise,
while water tried to fall.
I saw one continent break
into bits, like chocolate,
and another buck the way
loose wire does when
live. To be honest I could
have given up and cried,
because the rest of the sky
took absolutely no notice.
I had the option of staying
on the moon, of making a
permanent home there, but
everyone had gone, everyone;
so I reattached my wings
and flew towards the sun.
W ISHING
I look out from the living
without the clarity of youth,
towards history, arriving
by light at light speed, late.
Previous suns, spelling an
elemental tale, feign
nonchalance, and blink;
too remote to influence
the living, (driven by reliable
light), to think. Instead they
look in, towards silos of brutal
waste, greed and ambition.
I am past wishing and prefer
apparition, the unsettling
hologram, the gossamer
sliver of pearl in gas lace.
L INARIA
At equinox
when light and dark divide
he fetches tools. Hand
trowels, fowl droppings, collected
seed; and turns
the hibernating soil.
His neck corrects
for gravity with chalk
on chalk, and weightless grains
are lifted pinched
between his fatherâs bones.
In ancient
brain his mother, thin
in cotton, leads him past
the angled fig. Past
rock that clipped his toe.
They fling dry seed
and dip their biscuit halves in
tea. Next thought she calls
him round from play. They
scan, indelibly, an oblong
joy. His feet stick firm
in dry dust, and
he startles like wing.
With thick saliva tasting of
kiss, he stoops to rake
then wet the modern earth.
Nails and implements are washed
clean, the dog is given a stick; and
he waits for colour.
L UCKY M E !
I believe in luck!
Shot â or not â by a ricochet.
Squashed like a frog when a block
collapses â or not.
I forfeit hymn,
outrage and despair. The
elements are indifferent. They
obey physics, not prayer; they
jump to commands from a seething
earth writhing â or resting â flailing
their arms when it storms â combing
their hair when it calms.
I believe in luck!
Caught in the gaze of a
lion â or eaten up.
M EETING
A fitful dream (the type
provoked by alcohol or meat)
is like running in toffee.
The most that one can
hope for is to meet
a kind ghost.
Last week in such a dream
(it could have been the heat)
I met my mother.
I knew it was my mother
because the arms were hers
and because she wore my feet.
I tried, like any boy would, to
touch her cheek and speak,
but hand and tongue were wrapped
in web, and weak. I tried
once more to reach her face, but
it was skewed, and turned into a sheet.
R AT
At my age even a rat, running
snout low, has me sucking air.
To glimpse wild, (the there ⦠and gone)
is a surprise, an unanticipated gift
unsnapped ⦠a story half-believed,
uncomfortable, envied.
Like a disappearing snake
there is an impulse, always late,
to corner and destroy
the marvel,
the moon subsumes the sun.
Act Two, scene four, line 1.
T HE C ORE
Hawk sight and dog scent, plus
the touch of Keller,
might help us
to travel chemical, to reach
a bottom quark,
or even dark
matter for that matter.
Throw in the blind
for their hearing, (and,
if he doesnât mind,
a raging chef), then my goodness
we would soar
high, or even bore
like moles into the molten.
S UBURBIA
Unexpectedly the ice-stone
sank, where the heart berths,
tethered if you know your anatomy
to a desolate suburb
of flat and featureless terrain
in the brain â without arched mountains
as a backdrop, without caressing
sycamore for shade â a pastel
zone, a wither zone.
And to dissolve the stone
he sought the chaos of the centre,
where crickets shrieked,
where tree stems offered sweet
latrines for dog and drunk,
where rhythm beat the terror
out of night, alone.
F OUR
Sevenths
A LIENATION
Safely placed on the moon
I watched the earth spill
yolk, as it split into two.
Dust smoked, and cups
of crust lost poise,
while water tried to fall.
I saw one continent break
into bits, like chocolate,
and another buck the way
loose wire does when
live. To be honest I could
have given up and cried,
because the rest of the sky
took absolutely no notice.
I had the option of staying
on the moon, of making a
permanent home there, but
everyone had gone, everyone;
so I reattached my wings
and flew towards the sun.
W ISHING
I look out from the living
without the clarity of youth,
towards history, arriving
by light at light speed, late.
Previous suns, spelling an
elemental tale, feign
nonchalance, and blink;
too remote to influence
the living, (driven by reliable
light), to think. Instead they
look in, towards silos of brutal
waste, greed and ambition.
I am past wishing and prefer
apparition, the unsettling
hologram, the gossamer
sliver of pearl in gas lace.
L INARIA
At equinox
when light and dark divide
he fetches tools. Hand
trowels, fowl droppings, collected
seed; and turns
the hibernating soil.
His neck corrects
for gravity with chalk
on chalk, and weightless grains
are lifted pinched
between his fatherâs bones.
In ancient
brain his mother, thin
in cotton, leads him past
the angled fig. Past
rock that clipped his toe.
They fling dry seed
and dip their biscuit halves in
tea. Next thought she calls
him round from play. They
scan, indelibly, an oblong
joy. His feet stick firm
in dry dust, and
he startles like wing.
With thick saliva tasting of
kiss, he stoops to rake
then wet the modern earth.
Nails and implements are washed
clean, the dog is given a stick; and
he waits for colour.
L UCKY M E !
I believe in luck!
Shot â or not â by a ricochet.
Squashed like a frog when a block
collapses â or not.
I forfeit hymn,
outrage and despair. The
elements are indifferent. They
obey physics, not prayer; they
jump to commands from a seething
earth writhing â or resting â flailing
their arms when it storms â combing
their hair when it calms.
I believe in luck!
Caught in the gaze of a
lion â or eaten up.
M EETING
A fitful dream (the type
provoked by alcohol or meat)
is like running in toffee.
The most that one can
hope for is to meet
a kind ghost.
Last week in such a dream
(it could have been the heat)
I met my mother.
I knew it was my mother
because the arms were hers
and because she wore my feet.
I tried, like any boy would, to
touch her cheek and speak,
but hand and tongue were wrapped
in web, and weak. I tried
once more to reach her face, but
it was skewed, and turned into a sheet.
R AT
At my age even a rat, running
snout low, has me sucking air.
To glimpse wild, (the there ⦠and gone)
is a surprise, an unanticipated gift
unsnapped ⦠a story half-believed,
uncomfortable, envied.
Like a disappearing snake
there is an impulse, always late,
to corner and destroy
the marvel,
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