Amid the vast network of tracks and trains
one puts his body in and
it matters a lot whether he
puts it in or in front of the
train. We who ride know
the difference, but he who
has stalled and rerouted us
is blank, extinguished,
a smoke without a flame
I’ve lost all my sparkly bits.
I’ve no wool for the winter.
Look at me, sleek and black,
sexy but cold.
I went spiralling down into my friend’s surgery,
into the needle they stuck in his back.
Heard them say, Don’t move.
Felt the hard force of it.
Don’t move.
Went with his eyes to the lights later.
You should see him on the courts,
the balls he hits.
Or did.
In doubles you’d make sure
he was on your side.
My salt dashed has not kept you, bird,
though my mother said it would.
You’ve left the fence, you’re ochre now,
and the boy, bereft, is wonder-whyed
and blue.
Christ is bold growing
amber corn glowing,
fields of silk, knowing
that crushed sugar sun
will keep us at last
The Lord said to my Lord,
“Sit at my right hand and I’ll make your enemies your footstool.”
They shook hands and then He turned to me.
“Glad you could make it. We need to talk.”
Whoo boy, here we go.
He came around and sat on the edge of the desk.
“How are things going?”
Great. Fine, yeah good, no real good.
“The wife?”
Super, yeah. You know, tough as nails!
“The kids?”
Oh sure, ditto. Chuggin’ along. Thanks for asking.
“You got me a little worried.”
Me? Ah Boss, don’t put Yourself out. You know me,
I’m a little slow, but I bring it around.
“I guess.”
Hey, who’re we talkin’ to here? I’m Your guy!
“Yeah, I know, I know. But still.
You got me worried.”
Lace our window
and grace our yard
Here and gone and back again
reminders red
but gone again
You can’t get around them.
They wheel their kids with a parent’s eyes,
the road and road forever.
We need no camera obscura
to put us
proportionate on the line.
We’re changing shapes whatever we do.
We body out the ghost till we’re sucked on through.
That brief sick hope of escape
is willing grass and the comeliest of tinder.
Where is the rock, the lake?
He’s wide-eyed in a glade
in a smoky wood.
He tries to piss it away, the dirty dream.
And succeeds. The dream isn’t the problem.
Where is your faith, man?
He thinks of all he’s afraid of,
of all the present and future threats.
He checks the clock. And prays. And twists
and turns.
A man’s a man, though a little slow
till he’s swift as smoke in Idaho.
Utrecht Journal 