ash spits from the burning coconut husk
that blows up and shrinks like a shadow
like a head – if God is light
then he is both there and not there
(the same could also be said of another guy)
in a fire pit in the middle of a clearing
bordered by out-of-place palms and a river
flooded last night in a deluge the radars missed
receding a metre for every step she walks
with bloodless hands and hair just-cut that steams –
she can see the steam coming off her hair
she can feel her bamboo socks getting wet
and needs help – help is what the river left
behind – the trash engulfing all things to the flood
line
the clandestine filth of urban waters
coughed up and ornamental
consecrates willow trees, sublimates mud
bestows an apocalyptic beauty on the bend
makes the June morning colder – she looks back
no husk anymore but choking smoke – no him –
then leaves the path to wander through the colour
through the technicolour – wanders under cover
of smoke and trees and trash and the early hour
to where the park abuts the street, then crosses over.
No comments:
Post a Comment