|
The History Man |
Half the sea is my eye, mercurial
change for time
spent in cities of smothering sand
and almost dead rivers.
The rest of my ocean
is like water to the odour of light.
Trees in space regard the flesh
of my home with anxious glances.
The sun is like a root of stone, torn
out of the blindest kisses.
Let me see it once more in green
cloud fall out of my blind hands.
Restless Europe
is like the voice of a dog waking me
at night to the smell of magic and rain.
On dark, unrepentant soil,
I burn like a colossus, tamed by fire.
Dumb with fever,
I can barely stand. My face is painted
with hidden notes,
like a rare disease, caught just in time.
Drifting into the occupied countries I sit
in a bath of snow with a map
of death and a brace of winter losses.
Earlier than before I fail to live but now
I feel my way into the start of time.
Nothing as perfect, chiselled
into creation, would fill the sand as well.
copyright 2011
Austin
McCarron |
