Saturday, 21 April 2012

Dry day adventure

    My barbarous Sun
blurted out something like light
    the sightless corrupter
making markers of each piece of

              What bad work we do
        we do in time

                               Some days ago the rapist drakes
                       gathered at the very point
                          to splinter the fine tracery of flight
                                    and for this you hated god to silence
                               with interrogative jewels

    Today I cling to father
by his Freudian slip
    listening and not listening
and I want to rest
    a cupped hand
behind his head

clean, steelblue air cradling:
        post natal motives
        and unwritten letters and the great dark
        of the near disasters

Our tenderness:
         Who trembles there, shifting
                  from each branch
                          eyes open and frayed

       Scratched pictures fell
       from pocket holes
       to be dispersed as common signs

       Let me tell you
       there is no sacramental trail here

and so, we're clearing our woodland throat
    for our blackbirded song

No comments:

Post a Comment