warm, I'm floating, tasting salt, hearing seagulls and waves and
children shouting, the wind blows on me, warm. Night drops
and I'm cold, the crickets do their cricking, the sand is still
warm on my bare feet, on my toes the grit, the grass on the
dunes smells musky, the sheep bleat as I kick them, stumbling
through the field, up above - the sky beckons, whispers to me,
the pulse comes down, wraps me again with warm and tingly,
burns the air with electric discharge, I hold my clammy chest
with my hands, stroke me, make sure I'm still OK, and then I
go, frizzle whoosh, a thousand memories hurt my brain as they
scrape past my forehead, but it's normal, normal, for this is
how I go home, at last, to see my town, my buildings, touch
the smooth, hard gloss paint on the window sills, sit in sweet
smelling feather cushions, they jab in my back, pin-like quills,
they fold and break, there's sunlight here, through the window,
the dust from the cushion rises in clouds and sparkles like little
rainbows, swirling, outside the engines roar as the squad
prepare, they belch smoke, acrid smoke that gets in my eyes
~ ~ ~
Rachel's Migration
earlier still, the snow and shoreline, elegant,
molten, had broken the will for pain / the ritual at
Passover tired, over-used religion, corporation
clichés from their side or ours a catalogue, not
dancing broken dying flowers sexual, vaginal
dharma eagles innocent lovers words, mouths,
dungeons delicate threads stamped, curled,
troubled / the taste of hopeless passion drifts,
flies away, fades down into sleep actors on
substances suddenly iced anxiously stitched one
side unfeeling comfort sure of myths indifferent,
absent or duty, vulgarity / dropped into helpless
chunks raw, vague, romantic illustrations of
turbulent Venus