Alison Croggon
Tracing the damage
when you imagine the moon
makes the edges shine
the world a naked place
where you place beauty
as if it were an artifact
no matter how gloriously the contours of your sight
expand in this impatient light
at the centre
numb white
•
naturally it was always there
from the budding of memory
but now you simply float
you have seen it at last
this impossibly bright
silver pulsing
against the back of your eyes
everything else a red shadow
nudging you like a bruise
•
as if you could eviscerate that silence
with a scalpel
as if it could burst like a septic finger
its evilsmell
rotting at last outside you
the clean wound
simply a matter of pain
•
nothing is simple
you no longer know how to understand yourself
the word spoken in the circus
as a spinning body
dizzied by its own skill
an angel who approaches without courtesy
and spears you with his tongue
ah and after the consummation
what might be wished?
after the vigils and tears?
after the silence?
•
you understand only
the shine at the edges of things
the wing of a blackbird
flicked from your sight
words that vanish
precisely when you need them
•
somehow the blue is approachable
wished from your distances
hot evanescent
thrill of perception
slamming your eyelids open
your skin a fine net
tiny blue fish
flashing through
the violate
air gasped in
Yes
•