‘As if a poem could vindicate
the heart’s retreat from constancy.’
Like a child who’ll have to stop pretending sometime,
a kite that will have to come down,
my mind—caught in branches.
While, outside, our neighbour’s boy’s
a warlock—a traffic-cone’s
cigarette to cigarette, tea mug to tea mug is my spell.
I dream of champagne and firing squads
looking for the answer to the one question:
‘Who do you most love?’
This ordinary evening, all’s clear under sunset—junky, real.
So here on a windowsill,
by a phone connection burst to the wires inside the voice,
lie our toy bells—skip-found—that play a scale
and have birds for hammers.
Give me the scale. Who can say what they want?
Here, the mind flown too high in my head
won’t come down,
doesn’t know how to speak,
from these rafters it went to, to imagine.