Wednesday, May 30, 2018

James Walton #100 Even the Broken Things Entreat



Each day the border      
becomes a line of retreat
a swinging vane

declining lids
over the almond iris

reduces to standing space
the things that were once apart

even the broken things entreat

out of their tenacious memory

a daughter’s hand at four
in an acrylic blue kindergarten print
last school bag of a boy’s years

a ragged clay dragon coiled by fire
the chipped koala salt and pepper shakers
texta lines of height on the kitchen door

this house has swallowed a library

now the overdues are called

each box of go or stay
has a notice of acquittal
fares for the van to release

a recusal of all vanities.














7 comments:

  1. mine's more like a library swallowed a house

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    Replies
    1. God I know, the amount of material in this place is like the national archive before the digital age.

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  2. oh this is just my place writ large and beautiful. And without the fluff balls

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    Replies
    1. A fluff ball called Betty calls all the shots here, and she is not enjoying the packing up.

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    2. Ha. Your fluff ball called Betty sounds like a cat. She'd be beside herself by now. Under a bed or on top of the fridge. They are creatures of habit. Like us. Very fine poem, James. The vanity of possessions, as if we were pharaohs.

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  3. No minimalists (the new trend?) de-cluttering your museum then?

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