The cracks on my ceiling seem vast to her.
My imagination died with a man on a tree,
A battle, breathless fantasy, panning realization,
Like the day I discovered Bardot was a nazi.
Oh, we acted the parts!
A lower art, a mime, or less yet. But
I’d rather there was silence than the crushing reassurance
Of contentment and the little death of Marie Antoinette.
A rehearsed shudder, a plucked Hungarian –
My sheets stay achingly white
And deep inside, a teenager dies
With shame at the loss of the point of the night
Peripheral towns; more fire
Walked barefoot from Rajasthan
Divided and torn, mean-while
Translucent girls ship in from Turkey
To chip their teeth on flutes – riches
Rented by the hour.
Here in the fields
Camomile pollen scrapes to sleep
Even the most ardent farmhand.
My balcony hosts a grip of stretching weeds
When lipid clouds will smother
The people of the thermal banks
High in the flatlands
Ten storeys speak a mess of lines
Grasping from the bottom floor
Out to Romanian women
Misplaced pride marches
Triumphant typical fears –
Persecutive slivers in
And calls a home ’land’
Forefronting national minds
Rivers still carve clay
The way they always have
Through softened bones of horsemen’s wives,
Lost Roman walls, and love.