12 July 2014

Night, Star-Pocked

why? because, with you, she should like
to stretch the blackness of the
night, star-pocked, as she would an elastic band, pulling it out
so that it lasts a thousand hours before dawn cracks the sky, no,

more, so that she could, for all time,
delineate the lines of you, as if blind, with her fingertips,
the scent of you, too, the speech and intonations, write
it all down on a map to be referred to in those moments of urgency

when all seems lost, the sense of the
world sadly lacking, thrust into this alternate
universe where yes is no and it is all
tied up in a thickly twisting bouquet of red tape,
bulging and bursting out, situation normal, all........

the prize for the Queen of this Carnival is
listening to lies, each as headily fragrant as last month's trash laid
lying out in the sun, curbside, stinking, fish heads a gawping

oh, the seven plagues
falling on the house, the breaking of crockery, and mirrors, the
car trouble, false friends, funerals, the endless mendacities of
paid caretakers

before night, finally, draws the curtains again

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