Robert Verdon (edited by Kate McNamara), #30, Manuka 2015

i

glass rain … drops and clinks

from a crêpe-paper evening

like exclamation marks, like

gloves of mauve velvet, they glitter

while under my head as I drive

is a mountain, a pillow, others

walk in Manuka in spike heels

(as I reminisce, how they claimed at school

that there was a brothel next to Pellegrini’s,

a café where you would ask for a

cup of coffee with two spoons)

so many thoughts, they are

unclassifiable, they are bright real estate, they are

shiny cars slowing by stately old houses

ii

pink carnations of taffeta trifle

precious as, prettier than truffles

dangle from gold-rimmed ’20s eaves

as rifled lightning strikes the hidden

lake, pungent as bee-balm

lively as a mirror on a ripple

or a worm dodging a bird in an apple

iii

no waiting for the frogs

iv

hold tight

the skiff is slippery

a thin white sausage

in a membrane of river

a breath of new-mown bread

on the gamine gale

v

dry-nose dog days

in the wire-netting factory

heady as a high, dead chicken

crystal-set nights

in a pickling jar

…

but I am daydreaming

and the rain is fake;

the high heels pitter-patter, glitter-glatter

glance, and

sift like a mistral

the nation is a sinking whale

I park beneath an oafish moonbeam

wondering at the stars

the evening is a greasy soup-spoon

in a soupçon of glinting gin

figure-coruscating with bated breadcrumbs

in a missionary sky

I am so tired and happy, that

everyone I pass as I skitter by,

scarf fluttering like Isadora’s,

— especially the girl with the nougat eyes

and kaleidoscope breath —

looks well-pleased.

And the glass rain

tinkles like those wind chimes and glass louvres

of infancy