a view from a window

 

a view from a window

 

a garden blanketed   somewhat desolate

there’s a bench rimmed in snow

its back struts darkly visible   a rack of ribs

old bones aching with the cold

piano keys unplayed   a noteless wordless stave

and opposite   a buried flower bed

with frozen knuckles of black stems

clawing the air

and beyond by the high wall a colonnade

of deciduous trees arterial diagrammatic and exact

supporting a blank sky   silence 

 

trying to picture the summer

that would eventually paint this scene

to feel its heat to see the trees leafed

the sky released the flowers bloomed

those painted fists the clamour of colour

to get the sense of time moved on

of the world turning again

the heart unclenched

a figure   figures   sitting on the bench

 

music  

them dead

 

them dead

 

it’s hard to think of them dead

when there’s always been that absence

the excuses of time and distance

they’re still not here in the same way

living in that part of the mind that does not

mind yet lingers constantly on its own innocence

that part of the mind where no one really ages

and the futures always there   waiting   undelivered

the book’s unturned pages where

you’ve been living since you were seventeen

or so   no matter what the mirror suggests

the incremental stages of departure unseen

unnamed     uncalled

the symptoms of a disease that do not manifest

yet are slowly killing you all

the same

so, harder still to think of yourself dead

unspared

outside of the endgame  

of the wood

 

of the wood

the daylight shelters here for the night

amongst the trees builds its nest snuggles

up to the roots rolls in the moss the mulch

disguised as darkness as a place not

not a time we travel through the moon

snagged in the drift net of branches struggles

to escape flees beneath the clouds going

nowhere west a softness underfoot a fox

a badger a nocturnal creature a sudden

crack of tinder a small voice made large

and loud the noises come here too to change

their shape to bend and stretch to imitate

and intimidate the silence that itself feels

uncomfortable and broken wishing for

morning mourning like birdsong in the dawn

daylight retreating leaving shadows brushstrokes

of itself streaks amongst the leaves light rising

slurred a drunk on his way home lurching on un

even ground dreaming of words that could …

but stumbling he can’t see the trees for the would

And the winner is ...

And the winner is …

 

Imagine all the jigsaw puzzles

not yet in their boxes

all those pieces

loose upon

littering

the floor

 

Imagine time’s fingers busy

ceaselessly filling

box after box

innocently

randomly

spore

after

spore

 

Imagine that most times

the pieces in a box do

not fit together

to create

a picture

a window

or a door

an after

a before

 

Imagine two people in the dark

night after night   year after

year century after century

searching or not to find

a box   any old box 

unlucky     lucky

the accidental

incidental

puzzle

of

you

 

WARNING: The finished puzzle may vary from the picture on the box lid.  Contains fragile pieces which may easily be damaged if forced to fit in. No responsibility can be accepted for poor assemblage.  Once the box is opened, the goods cannot be returned unless there are exceptionable circumstances. Under no circumstances can the goods be exchanged. 

other lives

other lives

other people have lives that come at them

like a knife attack in the dark

other people have lives that chase them 

across continents   where

there is the stark truth of no escape

still others live with the ghosts of the dead

being kicked around in their heads

there are other people who have a life

that is like gripping the blade of the knife

clinging to the undercarriage of the world

unfurled

 

and there are others who on a Saturday evening

standing before the mirror having checked their hair

pat their pockets   money   keys   cigarettes   knife

 

imagine the view

snapshot

snapshot

 

he feels convinced that if he just keeps watching

he will see her turn away from the party

from the unseen person who is making her laugh

see her leave the kitchen and make her way

up the dark narrow staircase

there would be a creak near the top

she would tiptoe along the landing

to his bedroom door   left ajar

streetlight washed against the curtains

to watch him sleeping

 

and though he is awake

he doesn’t open his eyes

he doesn’t know why   so

somehow she’s still watching and

she’s still in the kitchen still laughing

at that joke of someone unseen   happy

the light still streaming through the aperture

into the now unshuttered eye   transforming

the chemical memory of time’s camera   

he still listens for the sound

that creak of a stair

a footstep coming up, a footstep going down

she’ll be there always now 

At some point

 At some point

 

he moved into the attic of himself

taking a sliver of a broken mirror

some string a knife and a torch

 

leaving a framed photograph of himself

centre-squared on the living room wall

facing the window where the world carried on

 

in the photo he was twenty-one face fair

undefeated   in good bodily health

with all to come and still to be done  so there

 

in the poor soothing light of the loft

he would angle to catch the soft dregs of sunshine

he would measure the reduction of shadows

 

in knotted lengths slicing through time

he would illuminate the rucked surface of dark corners

the seduction of how crooked timber lies

 

and he would remember nothing straight

still seeing through a young man’s eyes

the beauty cornered   startled   the fear   the hate