TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
The poem left my dark house,
thumbing a lift to the next town.
In a rain jacket and hi-viz vest
it walked wherever souls gather
into housing estates and supermarkets,
the pub, euro shop, and betting parlor,
rousing psyches from quarantine
in cosy purgatories.
It slinked into front yards
a prethought in the twilight. Greeted shadows
by name. Cawed cryptic instructions
from caved-in rooftops. Dredged pockets
for hope. Freed the last chip
from its brown paper bag. Time cycled
past, a small mattress heaved on its shoulder.
After worrying the sea at low tide,
it surfed stray birdsong in spruce plantations,
rode feral goats up mountains,
napped in passage tombs.
Scythed flowers in the pauper’s acre,
too many bones’ lying-in place.
Heard its shape when spade struck bog.
History and myth mingle
where rainbows unravel.
Under the Cold Moon, it hummed
along a road a small-boned orison
from the bus radio
that you have
into the opalescent darkness
purling the long way home.