It’s hard to gauge the health of this interaction
because I’m grateful, because the iron fist is long gone,
gabled in the California bungalow of dementia breached,
lead gone, gold siphoned. I have you crystalline
like childhood’s glass statuary, perfect model to perfect
likeness of perfect memory now a figment of imagination.
This digression is well-known but few write it.
An aching of wattle cascades from alps of vision,
a rusty grating one’s only proof. Remember memory,
veins and dimensions. The wisteria is the limit,
the waratah a grave, the orchid a room, everyone’s
dead parents propped up like a bloom. Never your
music to stir some vital signs. A lungful of harness.
It is cheaper to be here as I am, a tyrant of life.
1 August 2016