Amandine Van Ray
Sort of a face full of kicks
from the day you lost your key,
the annoying mouth of a letter eater,
then a mat of small stoned tango.
You never know the shapes behind,
those already, the secret curses,
the forced elevation, the upstanding,
you fail to read thoughts, an open smile
of oh-you-are-back-again, your news like the ill tide
of a badly tuned tranny, the damp fog
of tea steam rolls down the hall.
A perceived reality, refractory plate
of melted sand
that makes the outside far.
Laced with dusty curtains, a single glass
guarded by neglect;
a Dachau for summer insects.
The sill an altar of soft dust, aged relics
of minor sin at weekends,
empty bottles of glass,
traces of sea and sanded eyes.
Outside in the street, they trudge to the station;
tired ones walk to work, framed for a moment
through old windows
smudged with thick leaded paint.
Those that walk past are only for a second real.
They walk off the edge of the world.
When the geraniums turn to water in autumn
the early dimness
locks out the path.
The path cracked and sinking, a kind of code
spelled in neglect, the roses like a parody of rowans,
each hand reaches out to bloodline your steps.
Even near to your home the wildness blooms.
There are many places here hidden by growth.
All your steps pass weak grass and stumble pots
become ill with care,
only the knowledge of the sky in late autumn
makes it less alien.