Monday, December 08, 2014

that's not even wrong

the child that wakes at dawn child of patterns
(by the fainting episode) the magic lantern
through the blue curtains their shimmer their streetlife
who listens to the lights at night that track the angles
of the only room so the faces the spectators loom
so every room another box without a door

sees the child in the future the child without eyes
feeling for his/her alongside in a crumpled still-warm
stillborn silence now there has been enough
there is no news today of the escaped thing
perhaps it has not happened, not here
the child that escalates and vaults

the child that in its father's arms looks out
on reeling fields of mist to remember
futures of unlived blood and love
in the mirror he will not wake
in the other mirror she will not wake
not in this or other futures
but still he is held she is held
as though the leaves reeling down
in wind and rain had purpose had time had past
the child its little eyes alive to this
starting starting in fear and background love
the child that will not wake to this
will not dream here
the child with three sleeps left
child with flowers for hands
child of emergency lights
dreaming undreamed child of the fog-ridden pines
and pulses child in the angel light
and the police are here and it is really all over
but hold him hold her close at the fading
the quickening of this child, of this, child
your instincts will not be will not be born or lorn
not for nothing.not for nothing

she was not ill in that way, not in that way
child you had a chance to wake but did not
and what engine now clamours
but nothing now shall it wake
not for the sun or stars
shall it creak its earthly eye
not for nothing engine not for engine nothing
only cast away by our fear in the wasteland
behind the wall between the houses
alongside the streets where once
a page yet to write itself
newly vacated still-warm
these unlived forgotten episodes
of love on which he looks
still in arms in the garden only this afternoon
she looks out from the swaddle
though she is too old for this and cannot now settle
see in her in his eyes it starts again
it cannot rest and hush it deeply
deep as houses and the backs of beyond
deep as the blue startle of long-ago dawn
unlived, unlived, only dreamed
in your castaway gaze
from the arms of unborn fathers

for she was not ill, not in that way
and all your futures out of time, unredeemed
reward of the scraping she was not ill nor will be
nor was that life born along those backstreets
or in the wainscot or in the wall or in the panels
the fabric the joists the horsehair the signatures
beneath the paper and paint and plaint
nor did the wind moan there in autumn
or in the fog or at dusk when you would
feel it most if feeling had been born

bring me your dead children to house, to rehome
to accost as roosters who dance in the thick cloud
tonight/today/after all/later and all of a sudden and only
perhaps where the winds meet

for this does not end here
or there or in between

for she was not ill, not like that
in the fairy vat the leaden kettle
the idea of it has no place no home
no spot to settle, no dapple or apple
of its eye in the orchard I-spy in mid-afternoon
in the moss or mosses or picaroon
or isoglosses topes and tropes or thropes or other substance
of mist and scopes where you after all
are not shown any ropes, after all anyway the moon
after all and anyway the stars and their hurtle their gravity
that cannot act or anyway turn turtle

for yes and no and this never can never come too soon


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