We Spend Our Time in Georgian Rooms Dreaming of the Future

We spend our time in Georgian rooms dreaming of the future
The river roams narcotics rising through the systems & the streets
We pass these statues all our lives: we do not need their names

The sound of the sky is black with thunder & sheets of cawing gulls
Searching the surf for their purpose & carrion to feed the young
They hover their bulk above the wires of our tiny electric trains

Then drift to outposts & new construction built of dereliction
Into the plain livid always leave behind imaginations –
Fishing boats tilt from side to side dredging bones from the shale

We are past the point of reclamation now we are embedded
Tearing our limbs from the concrete we think it has not set
We drag our bodies from place to place until we find a grave

A worm pit or a scattering that suits our aspiration:
We spend our time in Georgian rooms dreaming of the future
The sound of the sky is black with thunder & sheets of cawing gulls

We telephone              we email          we transmit some feelings
We mark time with photographs of sunshine and kittens
Or Sisyphus a smile singeing his lips

                                                                  set for the last great push

 
 

from Zinger (Salmon Poetry, forthcoming 2013) / first published in Southword

Advertisements