TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations & other curiosities :: profile
12.21.18
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
All
that you have
is
your soul
into the opalescent darkness purling the long way home.
<<
|