‘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, 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 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 the whistle of the rumours
as to diets as regretted into tumours
is as easily forgotten
as the doleful information
of why the Roun d™Uppers
go directly in the crops
it is parked upon the same page
as Indemnity To vaxiNation Makers.
whenever I visit, or live in
these conspiracies, the air feels
layered, readable, like book pages,
the feathery rice paper of tomes,
and oftener I’m barefoot, credible,
thinking and picturing the bones
surviving the coffins; the monsoons
and the floods floating bodies back
half composed letters to Death;
and Cell phones, 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, a ear-size dried Otago
apricot, four Californian Date, two
tablespoons of seeds—enough to live
a day on without the body eating muscle.