Huntergathering, Panoramic from the lights at the end of the runway & Rapt
[ poetry - april 05 ]
Furred, the ur-man nurses a flame to life
skillets a limp salmon, ferries it to the fire.
Fur tongued, I rope a plosive,
corral the recalcitrant vowels
onto the plaza whose white parchment
blends tincture of titanium and garbage.
Both processes leave bones and charred remains
of dubious use to future archeologists.
Panoramic from the lights at the end of the runway
England; eggshell blue waiting rooms
where the lilac mother stares at her trainers, forgetting to wipe the baby's nose.
This is the twenty-first century, but we still have bats
and tears in the darkness of cathedrals
where the sweaty columns echo with the footsteps of tourists,
And April's cut another notch in her beaded belt
cause her Giro's lost in a Glasgow sorting house
and she hangs out on the wall with Warrior and the others
keeping score of the smokes and his lidded hood.
England of the summer's lilac clouds
so poised in their floating , bouyed and tethered
in the skies above Heathrow, trying to avoid the path of the jumbos
grazing the heavens while they hold the hands of the big leafed trees,
and down the road the van's come
to the chippy's back trap to offload
a month full of fat to recycle into what -
bisquits and soap? Morgan's wheelchair,
with racing tyres sloping inwards
so he can take the corners faster
is going to arrive today, and his fingers twitch
round the strap of his day-glo helmet,
while the stadiums are silent and their bars deserted
so Fuzzy's going to try it again on the midweek lottery
before hitting the betting screens with his mate and the Howler
though his eyes are streaming with excema and his shoes
have been rotting since easter. England miasmic, England
diaspora of souls.
Burnished, that slab of peach colored sky
rusting visibly as it hangs
under the gunmetal of a cloud,
ten thirty at night; the afterglow of our star.
In the vault above the bacony streaks of leftover evening
there's an astronaut blue going on
that's beaten off those sodium streetlights
who lord it over nightwinter.
The air is sniffing round the tree-roots
and round the fat green leaves;
they lay their placid hands over the streets
making you feel intimate
with the night
like this magnolias'; own blossom
is really just a promise
that we will find love
that we already have.