Spare Me

the vanity of those who seek to end history
by scorning the claims of the ghost story.

We who live by mystery
have no business trespassing
on the last myths
of the blue universe.

Take the late mist of a dying princess:

the torrid blush, the fluttered lash
the camera flash
the visual challenge
of the smoky glass;

the broken heart’s commodity.

The wounded driver a flame
in the eyes
of an astonished girl.

(field of landmines tiny legs a mirage on distant sands)

We who live by mystery wait.
‘I’s cast open, eyes half closed
while the lights smoke in the tunnel
and the car’s a wreck
the heart a brain
the palace shattered glass,

beauty shy of time.

Ade Jackson

No comments:

Post a Comment