Tuesday, October 25, 2011

in glimpses in small hours of the marsh mallow

living there like that with no head
and everyone looking through the trees
you'd have to ask
you'd want to know
if the flame that walks alongside
had the appearance of a marsh fire
a Saint Elmo thing that plays at night
around his main and mizzen
or super-mizzen as of a yawl or caterwaul
imagine that, squat there in the rising fog
and silence as little balls of light
that appeared over the slough at just before midnight
hung there a while then vanished
dead cells he thought dead cells that ignited
with inner mystic rotational fire something anyway
of lower orders not godly or angelic merely fire
catalysed up from some disaster of the personal tissue
some dream thing some downthrowing of the state
in metaphor or cataphor as of a marsh wight
or marsh mallow as is now seldom seen
a willow or wisp that strikes upon one's eyes
then vanishes wholly away in sight-echoes
whereupon he squats harder, more brooding
in the consciousness of those unreeling years
only again, only


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