thoughts stupid as
stagnant water
under the grey jowls
of the day
as the clock hands
garrote it
a carmine rose dying
memory crying out
for it
the dance of the
rose
in a world rough and
ready as a bowling alley
itself resonant with
the dance of bowler, ball, tenpins;
and the breathless
meeting at the railway station,
the note telling us
you are alive,
and other messages
of deliverance:
the memories we have
when we cannot
repeat their substance
are worse than
dementia,
historical dementia
being the worst of all
as the clock hands
are replaced by prison numbers,
but as grey age
murders us it turns green
so long as there are
messages to hand on
and dancing roses to
die for.
I like how you wrote this is as pessimistic and optimistic, simultaneously. And it works beautifully.
ReplyDeletethanks, wasn't sure of it actually worked — thought it might need more work actually, but then I always feel that
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