The future doesn’t exist
only the moment exists, and the moment
is the moment of despair that the future does not exist.
There are no hopes.
There are only desires and deepest of those
the desire to have hopes.
I ride the bus back from town
having achieved a slight melancholy
and bought things I did not need
when I ‘should have been saving’
for the future I do not have.
Love once tore my head open
and everything inside fell on the ground.
Now, I feel no love.
And my head remains empty.
such is time’s slow dripping
and the cloud moves toward the horizon.
Should I be angry? No.
Should I want?
Should faint red lines iterate upon the past and build to a revolution where hope is reborn as weak as it ever has been that we could one day find a place among things
In the beginning, something was destroyed
at least it seems that way
and something else rose outwards.
Sky-sized waves follow the instant
an ocean meteor impacts, and ricochet –
the planet at great speed becomes
Something Else – because all ends
are also beginnings, no law is more
certain. What more do things have to say
about destruction – all else is lists
of the long fall of the satellite from orbit
and the short cracks as the overhang weakens
the instant a fish first knows the harsh net.
In my end is my beginning
Is false because the I must end
For something else to begin – materials
work upon themselves some magic
which brings others to the house party
where green glass contains rotten liquids!
Our whole civilisation is a harvest
of destruction, even in its peace, when
blackbirds sing the lay of the worm’s
redescription in branches in the sun.
And nature also, this vast restructuring
where some shapes lose what others
gain – a magpie flies as the sun dips
its smooth light onto the striated oak
and on and again until the end of this
and the beginning of something else
and we can’t often tell the difference