Though we walk, undoubtedly
among the rubble in the bubbles
of our projections, interpreting shadows
bounced from (plasma-roped) insides of spheres -
give an odd glance; get an odd response
(are we striding with flies unzipped?) -
yet sometimes we feel we're too transparent,
see that cast, sparsely to populate a store,
wheeled out from somewhere, God knows
what dark hospital of synchronicity:
today the vague, the feeble, awkward, isolate;
the man decked out in muscle who
doesn't know what to do with it - shy, aggressive,
apologetic, dismayed, rolling shoulders like the briny:
a little sharp-faced man in a loose suit, black tie,
should be sitting in the Square Pint in Kenmare, Kerry,
says defiantly as I stare, "I'm Irish and proud of it!"
A vague woman pushes her trolley right in to me;
yet her eyes seem to have fixed on me -
the mind behind has wandered down the aisles.
I wonder if I am a ghost, stepped on, backed into
and the last was a shop-worker - no apology.
The faces seem like Italian pre-Renaissance paintings,
bitten, haunted, bulging eyes, sunken cheeks,
expressions barely overlaid with blank civility,
such desperation riven-nailed to split the wood;
such routine ground deep down to lift the stone.
Is that me, then. Is that really me? And yet I doubt.
Having portrayed it, I've transcended for now.
It counts for now and now will have to do -
since we cannot make time dance deep overmuch.
..
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
