in this town
my
books have
remained
in exile
a
cardboard sarcophagus of data
signed
on the inside cover
full
of smoke and in storage
the
colours faded as those of
badly
clad fellow countrymen overseas
like pastry
from the right shops
like
sunday lunch mother wine
like
meeting her in
the
middle of town
in
unexpected places
like
a homeless person who waits for her
on
sundays after church
like
the mist above the river
or
fireworks clouds
yes
evening light
like
phoning that you’re safely home
the
silence of the city at night
like
guts gurgling with bacillophobia
after
visits to restaurants
like
an aunt laden
with
cheap jewellery
put her on four wheels
and simply drive off
like
wild leftish nieces
turned
bourgeois
who
you were secretly in love with
and
their absconded husbands
like
talking about who
were
there before you
like
the visiting of the dead
on
the anniversaries of their death and
at
easter yellow ribbons
on
their graves
like
the first meeting
with
the blond and grey lady
like
the searching for a
dog
gone astray
like
smoking together
in
the water meadows
or
drawing animals on a
bare
back with your salty fingers
or
still knowing everything
about
all the photos
and
continuing to pass it on
to yourself
till
you’re just the only one
till
someone opens the boxes
No comments:
Post a Comment