Hand print_sometime between time finding in time
no companionship beside that sudden unpredictable
minstrel; watching people walking gently insidevision like the ebb and flow of
some far tide and pigeons fall out of the sky patchworked on it
instead of fallingleaves.
The city square_buses growling and rumbling
somewhere a cricket; night not far distant, hidden behind pale blue
silver-grey, a shimmer of a sky_A man stands motionless
contrasts this citypicture perhaps placing flaking shellfragments
from my image behind his weary glasses
he leaves me alone, rubbing and scraping, till clear white
is revealed beneath_No restful darkness for this one.
Bridge water_time, as if so many broken shards
of holographic mirror, can never be separated, never joined; if I write a poem
of my own time … is it gone … _Underbetween a menacing black the row of shining
motorbike wasps and this flatspace of weary grass and footsteps_The black faded
centre of avoid is present – right here – inside white lines, beneath
Parisienne townhouse_a life lived halfbalanced, on a corner
at the bottom of a steep hill, leafy dappled with streetlight in the night, on the rise of
the footpath, where you can slow up after letting go of the brakes; secrets could be
kept, tangling over philosophy, wethink weunderstand, soaking it up, something
to do with the age-group_You know what it means, I don’t but you can’t
tell me because I don’t know what it means.
Winding_this life, words appearing
in droplets, textured like that, burnished; pain has a palpable sound_It’s
like carbohydrate crunchiness, it’s like a clock, it’s like a thing dragged over
the metal windings and back again_A pen metallicised, special, someone else’s
unknown, that golden face and darkeyes – bunch
of memories, imagination providing.
Your guitar_clear soprano whispering and the bejewelled notes of steel,
and afterwards, the persistentringing and hesitant voice groping at conversations
till pure love is left only, helpless, exposed.
The wind_promising shivers, smooth chapping some other, harshly cool, shapes
being only an invention of one, perhaps not so great? who named himselfwise
in a monkey’s framework and left that treepeace behind him for some strange comfort
that turned his lungs to ashes, turned his head to pain
in tomorrow’s dreams where the movements of the soul_flutters and forgets_
the unreality of weariness … there I must go now, and soon
expect to forget, like so many_But not
you … I don’t forget you.