While all this is going on
Rain comes at last over the quarry sides on a day grey as sandstone. I reach across the skin of the house but can’t find myself within. The gate still sticks although the maple tree has healed itself. Drugs pass across the road hand to hand. Somehow we all began to sound like the shadow. Rage pelts trees all along the valley. The sky isn’t finished with us, not till the curfew. We realise there are words inside words.
Windows blink, murmuring diamonds, and cast-off sounds twist dreams.
You say: ‘There are languages I regret not knowing’. Everyone is working to the measure. How large it’s become. We knew it was all over after the cops had gone. Each second has a guard. Unseen presences kick leaves and lever windows. We painted our bars dark green where letters were torn. It isn’t the time to hate. We accept night and its measure where corners bend and rooms rise up holy and self-contained. We don’t always understand the noise, but take comfort in storm light. Air is transparent beyond the hill, towards the bay. We are washed in salt and amusements, immersed then drawn more slowly as our selves. Drops of mosquito poetry climb my arms but my blood is elsewhere, serum with the droning and diving world. All I want is a breeze at an open window, to watch a raven lift, black, shadowed, astonished.