Sunday, 5 April 2015

A Rifbjerg blackbird


the hospital gates are now being
opened by rusty hands the grey
terrazzo flooring is rubber-silent
the living even more so
breathing through wounds of stone
while the clock’s iron hands
pass over their cheeks the coal slips
between the houses it’s raining introvertedly
a drag of specimens rising and falling
are confined behind gauze stand in tubes
you sleep in the blind cellars wait behind
a screen a hand on the sheet
fingers blown away a grey and damp calm
then grows in your heart mirror as question
a screened radar recollection of an
other time then grows in the heart-ear hammer-echo
an arched sound of sight
of scents coloured minor between clouds
then no-sound falls silent you wake up
and have heard it

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