February And Beyond

Sleep-Sleep

Sleep-Sleep

A door is slammed. Outside a motor ticks...
back to the making of iron-rich sea-mounts
mid-ridge plate constructions push you from me,
slow flow pillow-lavas of each deep sleep.

The nested dolls have lost their loving centre,
and only hollows smile on.  Hate has humours
to entertain the shards:  pretends to fruition,
deploys theatrical devices. ‘Ice will suffice,’
he has it on authority, though fire has ire
and well can start a carnival in hell.

I always thought emptiness simply like
Eliot’s ‘voices are in the wind’s singing’
but it’s busy and astir in wild excess
with a hundred powers too many
of virtual ‘disasterons’ everywhere.
Yet in that cloud of random furies dwells
a calm in which the dead put their two
hands over our wrists and press a while.

At the back of the chill wind and traffic
and dog bark, you find yourself sitting still.

...........................................