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Desert
Stations
I
had grown tired
of keeping watch
you
tried to find
my resting place
its
handprint obscured
by
scurrying brand
names. I
withdrew
fingers, caresses
become
nail
clippings which
bought mind
files:
banks
piled high with
the dead
their
glory dried
to paper flowers
I
dream mini Buddhas
row after row
sheltered
from their vultured
genotypes
dread
relabelling.
Stench –
what
logo that? Soap
–
as
if dysfunctional
might cleanse
us. Signposts
–
most
bent, gone,
my warm dent
cold
and a sanctity
renamed
The
Unmerciful Endurances
(heard
carrion
resurrect its
claim; screech
some
cryptic eschatology.
Follow )
my
ironies' trail,
body bags look
like sausages
don't
they?
We can admit
nothing up here,
detached, flying
banners
come slogans
come promises
come ideas
summated
panacea
I
must have slept
you
woke me, a groan
and easily,
such uncalm
could
have
been earthquake,
mourning-marches
or more hard
armoury
making itself
spent
I
needed out,
however a sun
was always high
enough
to take good
video by
no
insistent logical
argument
not
a case of Logos
or teleology
nor
national sovereignties
but
syncopated casualty
alcoves on a
plasma
screen
live-time
somewhere a
debate "No,
we,
the
self-satisfied,
are not thrown
to the lions"
You
must have said,
contrary as
ever, Reach
and learn my
love, prayers
flags flutter.
Hope
nudged
but
I turned over
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