through cloud floor breaking
hidden harvest moon looks down –
porthole embers grow
undercarriage jolts –
for your own safety don’t
walk under the wing
x.2024
Contents May Settle
Unfold a step-stool. Steady yourself. Reach above the speaker. Then
take your cobwebbed alter ego down.
Caress its ghostwhite bumps and lumps,
smooth as unglazed porcelain.
Run fingers across the biting edge
of two half-moons. Your thumb around
the rim of empty orbits.
Stare into those sockets. Ask your plastic Yorick where he came from.
‘Bare of all attachment, I have
sated memory’s hunger,
carried my arcane names within.
We objects find ourselves
wherever we’re appreciated,
never in an institution.’
His three planes of facial weakness demand you look within. Explore
the sinusoidal labyrinth.
Trace its meandering sutures,
find every ditch and fissure.
So, remove the beret, black and worn
echado de lado like that Che
you once thought - in jest - to be.
Unhook the catch. Lift the vault. See a butterfly at rest inside.
ix. 2024
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