They’ve been worrying for ages
how best to show your chaos.
Two days from the opening
a curator re-arranges papers,
spills ink on the floor, half-eats an apple
and throws it in a corner, but still
the disorder comes to order;
the flung pipe, the forgotten shirt
sculpted and composed, with the notebooks,
the scrawled-on walls
where you wrote the first drafts
of poems, reminders, anything that occurred.
It’s all there, through the peephole,
this reconstruction of your mind
from which you are entirely absent.
You’re in heaven cursing the dullness of angels,
throwing your clothes around like clouds,
prowling the fragrant avenues
for a fight, a drink, someone to talk to
or sleep with, and if some freak wind
or wave could reach you there
and waft you down to your own chair
to be regaled with your pencil shavings,
your empty bottles, our breath on the glass,
you’d sweep the lot from under our eyes,
tear it all down, rip the postcards, the T-shirts,
kick every one of us down the stairs,
rob the till and drink it dry and float
back up to your high bed and wake up
having forgotten everything. We
who so loved your life we made a fetish of it
will stand in the air, hoping to catch
whatever falls: broken crockery, a smashed cloud,
we’ll see your hand in the wind and rain,
hear your voice in the roaring streets,
follow you hopelessly from porn shop to pub
and back again. And then a tree will fall,
or a leaf, someone lean out a window,
a cat slope
down a laneway and
at last we will understand you.