|
HAZE
Carriage-clock,
beryl, snakebite (liquor)
fall
into mind like fractured weathers
from
TV quizzes and quick crosswords:
you
know them and sort of what they mean.
But
you never use them, you couldn’t,
you’d
pitch them in wrong and look a fool.
What
do they call it, this stockpile crock
of
half-cock, out-of-a-job labels?
What’s
that kind of anger that’s never
directed,
won’t get up off its bum,
strap
on a shining gun and go out?
What’s
the devotion that floats around
on
a misty lake, wouldn’t commit
even
to a jewelled hand and a
glossy
blade pricking the wet surface,
igniting
a reversed thunderbolt?
What
to do? Intensify your life?
Read
deeper? Rouse and do rather
more
than
duty implies, work recommends?
Make
collecting stamps political?
You
need a time machine. Renovate
those
days of sweating at regattas.
Too,
gear-shift forward towards wisdom
that
now should have already arrived.
But
that’s not how things are. We’re
stuck with
intentions
only half-intended.
The
carriage clock did not make the journey.
Rotgut
got us and our money went.
Alan
Marshfield
top
of page
note |
