It’s too late, I’m too tired
There are too many small senses
Crowded into the bed with the big
Beige allover tiredness
Let me sleep, let me not write
The aches in my arms tonight.
Only warm up the bed till a)
I can finally relax and b)
The bus is late
Condensated windows drip
onto raincoats, yawns, mornings.
Alongside, a giant spider crawls
slowly – it’s so big
it can crawl slowly and still
It takes a sodden leg
and taps the misted glass next to me
dunk, dunk, dunk
Pensioners get caught inadvertently
in its slowly trailing web
then go back to sleep.
Branches scrape on the bus
like dull whistles
A myth can happen anywhere,
Yes, even here where the black wier
constant as evaporation
As constant as the bird-song thrall
Never lets up, always pouring
Dark and when the wier is eaten
Still its constancy will shatter,
When all and the wier go up, splat
In the suns final inferno
Thunder out into space and pour
in a wall of material –
Stars won’t know what to make of it.
Terror swims inside me like a basking shark
It’s my sullen wake, it fills the air behind
As I’m drawn along suburban stone.
I see the wild forgotten as a dream is forgotten
I know I dreamed, but what was it?
I stand on a hill and see the city
Draining down its valley plughole
Soft scars left in the grading air.
I see this city move as a scrapheap moves
Slowly downwards, churning the earth.
Waiting for a bus I wait too long
And my figure, mistaken for a statue
By some routine artist in a tatty book
Is selected for the top of the heap
Which moves, and the wild falls further.
In a shifting forest, in the past beyond thought
A foraging girl picks out an acorn
From a dry skin of leaves, her breath
Marks the air. She leaves it
And the earth hurtles out from beneath.
Oh your voice,
It carries the geology of the tongue
In a startling language
Your saliva and its stones, caught by geographical time
The knot and bark of your swallow
Sussurations of your lips, of fur
Brushing past itself, salted in the night-forest
And your eyes muddy marsh
Sodden in the hills and routes of our conversation
Between moon-dragging planets.
Female, you shake me
Your strata bared by the sandblasting wind
The grass bent, rent and shattered by a foot
That mountain collapses and tectonic plates tear
You gulp in the nothing of my ear.
The boat was unmoored years ago.
But we don’t know that.
To us we have always rushed
On a foaming river.
And to us, this is calm
The endless stillness
of absolute unrest.
Your necks are aching now, for sure
But we can swivel
Our heads back and forth
watching the shore
This relaxes us, deeply
The saintly newness
of a future we expect.
There are no doors, only corridors
in our houses – we run
To open them was too much
we tore them out
Now the wind follows
Do we give cause to it?
Or does it give cause to us?