Organic molecules
Our galaxy has no point at all,
so desperation thrashes round inside me
with a barely discernible taste of earth.
The pigface and the mean coprosma,
nasturtiums in your garden, racquets in the hall,
are these many or is it one?
Body, my leather animal, thinks
we dream because we are lonely asleep:
can meaning be inherent, after all?
Assuming you don't know what you know
we parse the figures of eternity.
Since I'm the bloke who needs the out-of-doors
with our language made physical in gardens,
those marvellous pink barred clouds and angled rays
can be nothing more than merely genuine.
And poetry survives,
art hangs on the off-white wall
but memory hugs the branches against itself.
In their fluent passage
Like clever, glimpsed sprinters
across morning's pale oval of twilight
are my guaranteed brand-new dreams
just beyond the silvered memory bucket:
or should I have dubbed it a fountain,
washing those teenage ghosts away,
all those gambles and wanhopes?
Poor life won't give us a comfy answer
through the leaves of our evergreen
backyard copse. The sun lofts again
and grey things look just as they were:
especially in these morning papers.
Why on earth can't we have some archangel
gliding in
to a fledgling chorus of tenors?