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