These curtains, how they fluttered like wings.

By | 14 December 2009

These curtains, how they fluttered like wings.
The singer, however, was no ugly eagle or aeroplane egg, the camera zoomed
in of its own accord
It’s like a postcard holiday home.
Not present. Misrepresented. Waving hello
– or the silent applause of lost nights?
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Rapid flicker of infection. An infant’s chest x-ray
breeds a terror of frailty, and all the wings are helpless angels:
these sodden days, we are taken by updraughts as spindrift across a shadowed city.
Keep breathing
keep dancing in the wind
keep faith with that which you never can be
… but are haunted to be; a ghost-name lost on the tongue
a fortified keening – rising, rising
into a banshee scream
that could turn the Eiffel Tower to rubble and raise the living
or raise the waves of sonnet leaves, wagga-fish leaping in all directions
Each morning, high in the attic, you can hear her humming as she stitches
feathers onto gauzy curtains,
and the air comes from everywhere
but the past is a painting a journey on the wing on the edge
Is there time to refashion?
the boasts of tennis court oaths, the blood spittle of consumptive
love melding on page, canvas and empty video spools

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