Immaculate Accuracy

Reversing out the drive, and looking back
at the bach, the grass spreading
along the guttering, the rust running in
the pale yellow paint, the raw colander
of spouting, feng shui awry around the yard,
I find it ‘sympatric’, this incompletion
of house repair, to my unrealised goal
of Art supporting artistry
in a self sufficiency of tax-producing sales:
another twelve months and I’ve again put off
the jobs of home improvement and learning
that I must hold up the genuine articles
about myself, and say: I am a good man, there is time
to make a start, the weather is on my side…
But forward into Drive, and off I go,
with Poems on the mend, concepts to versify, sunlight
on the dashboard, breasts in good supply…Am not
the captain of my soul, entirely, like this.
I approach, from behind, an ‘unfinished’ daughter,
with her father. I’ve watched them grow,
a part, together as a whole, sharing
something similar, and old. I know,
immediately, who they are, it’s in the walk
before I see them, front on, is pleat-recursive,
has identical curvatures which dominate the Line;
dental, dimple, eye brows, jaw, a long skeleton,
defined so that Being is not Gender, specifically,
and The Mystery somehow choosing from the palette
what is needed for its urges. The salient, silent,
and seamless surgery of this! The knowing! The
immaculate accuracies of Now, tandem
a tomorrow brokered otherwise. Rather make a poem
start to know it than return the Hebe’s into lines
the fence won’t sweat it supporting alone, silicon
the spouting, a new down-pipe. Easy things, handyman.
But up the hill which overlooks the bay,
past the Rest Home occupants inside
scaffolds decayed and calcified
who cannot lift their arms to wave back—
watching Construction raise their new facility;
and further off, a large thermometer painting,
with red mercury showing the fundraising chase
of the target, has the new inches added.