The more poisonous our home becomes
the more beautiful will be the cures
provided for us.
We know from the faces of its workers at
the end
of each day, that the factory deals only in
the truth.
The sand harbours scorpions and barbed seeds.
The stones harbour the absence of a heartbeat.
When your books are standing up tight in their
shelves
they’re judging each other by the covers
and blurbs.
The tiny white aeroplane carrying six
hearts sputters out across a vast desert.
The vast desert can think only of vastness,
a last and lasting thought held.
The more poisonous our home becomes
the more poignant is the art on its walls.
Is the poison a metaphor, or is it real?
ReplyDeleteThis poem is full of great lines, as usual.