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.
                   
  *

In this particular kingdom of the blind
the one eyed man is too busy
      shepherding to brace the reins
            of a king,

warding off the accidents of human traffic,
the stumbling patsies of misplaced trust,
another lusty collusion of genocide and fun.

           Yet a mile high above
  in the flight paths of the blind
a stewardess advises her passengers
            thus:

‘At the command: brace! place your head
between your legs and
       pray - or trust at least

for the plane is losing
        altitude fast     
               &
we all may be obliged to acknowledge soon the moment
     in which
even the Beautiful People
     won't be leaving
 good-looking corpses

But in the locker above your head
you will find confirmation that

even the visually challenged
     will have every right
to have seen and not seen the fire at the end of the universe
       which the scriptures say
will burn seven times hotter
        than the sun.’

Ade Jackson