|
INFERNAL
FICTIONS
The
wood talks, says where the nail must enter.
A
sanding disc shifts future pluperfect dunes
across
the planks of the planned study.
Cupboards.
Beading. The paint
goes on.
A
mind takes shape—books containing
glyphs
and opinions stacked in rows.
Plants
whisper in sleep as they are watered.
Roots
suck, directing the hose-pipe’s nipple.
Its
coil from the tap flops on the lawn,
an
obedient snake. The syntax
of shrubs
is
of moribund Latin, real but surreal,
indecipherable
and petal-naked.
Our
week-old grandchild shakes and whispers.
Dug
plugs on demand. Hand under
head
rotates
his thought. In eyes and
bowels
apprehension
begins. The scholar
prepares
for
his walk through the obscure garden,
nights
amid wood pulp and infernal fictions.
Alan
Marshfield
top
of page
note |
