So much unknowable life assails me
through the honey-glass lozenge
of the evening window.
As Buddy Rich solos on the roof,
I am an unspent match in a cornfield,
a radio antenna for ideas.
The ironwork crop circles of the water towers,
early staging posts for an invasion
above the carapace of the coiled city;
The candied lemons of porch lights
lambent on the windows
of junk-fed rail carriages, thinning and pallid;
The motorcyclist throwing his sound
reassuring and confident as a ceasefire.
And despite all this double-timed joy
rushing past me,
still I press myself inwards
insistent as a watercolour through paper,
gaudy, juvenile and primary
like hope, that CMYK with which we must print only the best of ourselves.
I long for a simpler, easier time,
when it was enough merely to cry “catastrophe!”