Robert Verdon, #210, Child

child counting stars in a mirror

fingertip escaping the earth

wind tapping a pentatonic scale

on the glass chimes that always break

space is colder than the false dawn

and life a fire burning backwards

a thing of bronze keys and glass chimneys

beneath you the grass is like raffia

and the river, the river is varnished

you sit watching jigsawed shadows

sifted by skeletal grasses

while lumps of grey potato

pile about the horizon

a wisp of wasp-like cloud

drifts closer with a story

as across the water reaches

the stench of burnt elastic

and the wrench of dismal sirens

which make the mirror quiver

the stars are covered up now

again your bed will claim you

so file your dreams with diligence

and creep here in the morning.