‘I know, I know
that through me it will go:
Sadness which shakes not
a flower, lifts not a
shadow in pain’
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
whenever I live in or visit a city
eventually I find myself wandering
between car park floors in buildings
with tight curves, low roofs, smooth
concrete light, thinking of burials,
and sex, and the organisations
with grand names, convincing us,
the Us to blame, of over populating
so that burials are now being performed
standing up, the casket lowered feet-first.
the narrow roofs and open elongation
in central city parking stations
capture the metropolitan odours
of food and fuel and dumpsters
and perfume I love, so much
that building are remembered by their scent.
and their light, a mix combined
in parking stations it feels layered
like book pages, the feathery rice
paper of tomes, and oftener I’m barefoot,
thinking & picturing the bones
surviving the coffins, the monsoons
of rumour, easily forgotten,
of why the round Uppers go directly in the Crop.
And the floods, floating bodies back —
half composed letters to Death—
and Cellphones, surviving the clothing
of the cadavers, are things I use to laugh about
existence as a ‘Me’, tethered to his shadow,
pinned, at first, the threads of memory,
stitched into his flesh. I have a carrot,
an ear-size dried Otago apricot,
four Californian Date, two tablespoons
of Alphabet—enough to live a day on
without the body eating muscle.