There was a moment today where the sun hit
the leaves of the tree by the upper field
and it shone dazzling copper
I stood in quiet awe
like I had found hidden treasure
or witnessed an unexpected birth
and the leaves glowed and smouldered
for a few seconds
as if small god had thrown handfuls of pennies
into the sky
Against the gilt backdrop
he walked all that way
and I could see the shape of him
cut against the gold and shimmer
the pace of his walk
as he came to find me
and to talk
We learn names fast
on this street
by watching footwork
hearing them chant
for whoever holds court
a victory at their feet
that can’t be bought
Scuffed school shoes
toeing the ball
this way, that
lost again in seconds flat
again, again, again
cawing verbs, begging
for a battered balloon
a sphere so tattered
one could assume
it nears death
Again, for it they call
a squalling clutch of baby birds
leak, lank
breathing cold air
like ship steam
bolting up the flank –
the hot chimneys
of their unblemished lungs
pumping fuel
a scrabble, a dance
none too cool for
rough knees and shins
Their backwards prance
gains pace, with speed
stab and volley
thrilled, each shriek in kind
as the ball flies upwards
they gaze, running blind
their ragged god
lost in the winter sun
You write about the moon
its opalescence
a bowl of shadow and pearls
the way it paints over
everything it sees
the world in pallid gloss
You write about art
its multitudes
the lawlessness of expression
the ghost that shapes
everything we do
the bent arm behind us
You write about love
its essence
and of the helplessness
the violent shooting heart
without restraint
the thunder after the strike
You write
You write
You write
and it makes me sick
I dreamed last night
of an empty room,
of absent colour,
swaddled tight
in pitch and gloom.
I woke in fright, in
spice-lined sheets,
the heat of night
having bled a cool
clarity from my mind – oh
I dreamed last night.
I saw darkness seep
into the lines, and
blur the light
and though I know
I have no right
I long to tell you why
I dreamed last night.
I’ve got a drawer full of shoehorns
from all the crackers,
from all the Christmases,
since I was ten.
Sometimes, I take them all out
and line them up from
one end of the living room carpet
to the other.
In order of year, I start with the
burned red cedar of ’91,
when Dad took us out
to see Grandma,
and end this strange lineage of mine
with the neon green plastic
of last year, when I took us out
to see Dad.
Tonight I will open the drawer,
and lay out this ribcage
of memory, just once more
upon the floor.
ataraxicat 