Darcy Cornwallis31 March 2017
The whole world has somehow bent; the sky is fixed and dull, and slants hugely towards the earth, as if a single, immense piece has cracked and fallen loose.
They say your dreams were actually migraines,
that those luminous sighs cascading before your eyes
in burning heavenly rains were in fact
a derangement of pain and shivering neurons.
The darkness webs from
shattered homes in silence,
and spreads through the petrol-stations
and the pizza shops on Saint Georges Road.
A car alarm breaks the stillness.
You roll onto your side and mutter something empty,
the breeze carries flutes from Bacchic hills
through the sometimes portal of your curtains,
five bells toll in some distant church
and the future, my love, can wait another day.
Chink of green glass ‘chin-chin’ under
mosquito-hive canopy, and the sky above
is just really big. We have a clear dusk.
Sip the Jesus juice and sit in silence
for the sacrament.
Dona nobis pacem
It was all terribly grim and modern.
filthy air pushes into eyes and ears
It should be fine, I think.
We slip into the yawning nothing and she promises me that things are about to get freaky.
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