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Decorating the present
1
You retired from
life? No, only
your own: the girl next door knew more
so you saw red
when she did, paused
before the same story, the same
innuendo
then thought better
and left the newspaper to curl.
Outside you stepped
confidently
because the day was not yours. Yes
the wind missed you
the tree shivered
for your initials: what were they?
2
In a moment
exiled from that moment
you were just
one more boy who thought
architecture into air, who guessed
the silver of a birch was enough
to keep the frost
off. You were wrong.
As you reached the tree, reached
through its rings for—what?—your shoulders
shuddered
under the weight of a dark bird
with a darker song. Before you knew it
by heart, the song
dropped with your eyes.
3
in memory the song
shimmers with the impossible
distance of the girl next door
more alluring than real
she is friendly with the children
you never had
leaving your fingers
free to ease
through vein and stem to
air turning over
the new leaf
knowing
the years together
cluster under roots
you have forgotten the taste of
4
The years together are the years
apart. How many
steps, how many
memories decorating the present?
If this earth is a grid over
air the stars are
touching. Surely.
The girl next door, her eyes
colonise your body
with borrowed light, with foreign
affairs: little bits of nowhere
making you taking you
over.
5
You retired from
life. In a moment
exiled. In memory the song
shimmers. The years together passed
the years apart will last.
Yes. From this to this to that
and then? All those connections
missed. You did. Take the car
and skid through the skyline—
why are there no stars
why are there so many
you still can’t answer?
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