In a strange land, everyone does what he must.

As usual, the bird in my dream was a dove

covered in blood that sat on my clothes rack,

preening itself, spattering my shirts red.

I catch and devour small kindnesses

as if they were locusts full of the ripe fruit

of domestic life, but for my honey

I savour the sweet hours of silence

and peace, reading obituaries

of people I’ve never heard of.

I pile up my writings on the floor

where they will crumble unread.

Somewhere out there must be others like me,

each one a centre, sharing

in the vastness of the sphere,

but the space between us is cold and dark.

Published in New Word Order

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.