March 2007
I come by without help, but with courage, to retreat
in a mutation of unthinking inequality;
the car comes back whining, the shuffle of shoes on the concrete
broadcast the shattering of peace and tranquility.
The quick snort of the hand break, the clack of the gear,
the prison key turning, the click of the entrance tell me
that the evening has gone on the breeze, up in the atmosphere,
to play cards with the those who know nothing but ignorance in pity.
I watch in admiration, a grazing horse, waiting for a young woman with the rope to try
to pack her things on its back, waiting for a warm, young breeze to come by.
07 20
On the old, grey, food-scar table, watching me
in the early hours of a sun, weak and warm,
a group of battered apples knot in concert washed-up company
in the refuge of a plastic, third-world, indigent corm.
A grating, mocking bird in the garden chirrups ‘cheap, cheap, cheap.’
Eat
A steel dog-bowl mackerel, with light stuffing of chili, came
with an ancient dish, a protracting spinach, green, and game;
a plate of imitation Chinese character bore the rice, now lime juice tame.
A toothpaste mug of water, in hydration, went through
the lunch, a lounging-couch quiet-just-me quarter past two.
Nebulous Neuron Who goes there, might go there.
I rest in the afternoon, on bamboo mat, in the rear; a shadow passes by
the bottom of the door. I shout to question, unknowing, ‘Who goes there?’
I hear Rhiannon, a brisk yet willowy squash racquet bint of thirteen, cry
in squeaking ignorance of common English parlance, ‘Go where?’
