Pain in my hands as I hold them
grasping a book, obsolescence
staring me down across thirteen
futures, just those from that second –
Le Grande Chartreuse chants ply away
in chorus across the copper
and fibreglass, a chant of years
of imaginary journeys.
I can hear imaginary
thoughts of those who would use oldness
to justify anything new
they fancied the look of. Silence
for example. A lost image
which is strings of words and phrases
and none of it uncreated –
it was sung in old emotions
we learned (and we is a loose term)
in ages past (every term is)
when we were openings among
the trees. I mean to say that no
singer can by their song undo
hope, though the lost hope may argue.
No dice throw can abolish chance.
The new world will come regardless