In the Year One, that was
scraping on the ground, scratched up
silence &
folded by death: winter flies.
the first – a wartime fall when
things have already been
run through by a nerve, ignited by
the air. across the field, the battue
brings back the gravity
of the tracks distances
shrink & whoever
happens to be on the move vanishes
in his thoughts: you
see the fish spool men coughing in
great waves onto fragile strands. when
what merely travels scraps us, you hear
horses in the drain, clatter &
a breeze that
blows chemically up
from the sewers; you eavesdrop, bewitched, maybe
there are still magic spiders
squatting in the old radio voices, tiny, well
hidden, only
an itch in the ear
of relativity
David Harsent (1942- )
Necrophilia
No wayward promise, nothing to shake the heart,
nothing to warm to, no trace of harm or hurt,
nothing of jealousy, no risk of bliss,
the wide, white eye; the perfect parting kiss.
No comments:
Post a Comment