Tuesday, 26 June 2012

Across the road

Light escapes the Venetian mind, words gather
in thin strips of incandescent thought. Edison sold
his voice, mute as a lamppost he stands, listening.

The street inhales Von Gogh’s severed ear; a dash
of yellow should have sufficed but love
needs more than orange petals and a starry night.

The car horn pretends a saxophone’s urgent blast
into the night as nurseries sparkle to music without songs;
blankets babe separated from parental thoughts.

In this street I sit at the desk. Across the river
of tar a family is busy this night packing away
the medals and memories of their father.

Tomorrow they plan to sell the discards
to every passer-by who pauses; an art show of life
between two people and their children.

This is the mug their father sipped when told Mary
was leaving school, this the picture bought when they
holidayed in Spain, that plant grew upon the dog’s bones.

The stars shine down sadder than an empty carousel; music
sifts through their family collectively. I hear their voices
escape into the sky though grief hangs, too heavy for freedom.

I might buy a shirt worn by a man now sixty himself.
A toy for my daughter the girl, now mother, once loved.
A coat for my wife he bought for his wife his lifetime ago.

Tonight I see them come and go, bees frantic
around a busted hive, mending, as if a wound bleeds,
before the sunlight tomorrow exposes them.

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