Carry On

1 March 2015

from Apocalypse Dreams

I did not expect to find myself at the end of the world
camping. But I am and now naturally: the tent peg &
tarpaulin are familiars of many before me, before us.

A small enough encampment with quick smiles we
don’t believe our hopes for this taut new world
though we speak them out loud with dejected hair.

Rain here does not clean; it muddies: we feel this as
justice. At the edge of what we have made & believe in
is the thick meniscus, firm & trembling: it is impenetrable

but fragile: a thin sac separating the old world from the new.
I am afraid of our jellied lens, our cervix, through which we
emerged dewy-eyed, behind which the old world carries itself

murky & still in a cradle of watery poison. So it is that life’s
little necessities turn on us as we gulp down. Turn on us, we say
incorrectly. Man undoing his own kindness again and again.

This entry was posted in 49.1: A BRITISH / IRISH and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related Posts:

Comments are closed.

Please read Cordite's comments policy before joining the discussion.