Pair Of Eyes On Windowsills In the snug of my soul: a castle thatched With clay and flowers, I measured the calm of A certain Sunday morning, and felt the power Of a breath at rest; seeing things collated in dew--- the cold transitions; Mist in phantom-dance to reach the clouds. Sunflowers smiling above the dim of petals. Leafblades rising to the winds call. Nest-loving birds Preening feathers. Geckos, dazed, looking at spiderwebs. Roosters, the first trumpeters waking the chill air. Ladia, a neighbours lady the night before Clad in nightgown, emerging from a man s bedroom. Feet carrying faces to destinations beyond the horizon, And the solitary sisters drinking the Fanta offered To the gods, washing their mouths as they walked into the Golden-gates. I, gathered in a din, shall not for the moments to come, Suggest that the world is at peace with them. Or that the dewy-eyed worshippers, giving to rosaries The tongue to mumble incantations are not doomed To pray in casuistry buoyed by the gambit. Or a thief in step with what the offertory proclaims Could not wear a vestry in communion with dreams The preacher stores in his head. In my carrel, a little too close to public opinion, I saw the sons of Sarahs daughters, moonbound, Board a ferry to the lake to sacrifice a white cock. In pursuit are the widows who had their senses grounded For years after a bomb fell on their husbands. Nothing craves transgression save I, Who interprets the body and its inversions on dark days. From the first of the six windows, I saw politics throw Rocks at limbs, denser than locusts on a farm. Tightens its rein, breaking the Slum cities in pieces One cannot number. From the second window, I touched a virgins pulse Days after they raped Hannatu in a log cabin. From the third, I heard drums pounding her heart Flowing in streams to taste the salt water which Burst open the depth of the Atlantic Ocean. Smelt Godmother, a harlots twin, from the fifth, Passing by doorsteps as an apparition to lead The march to the grave-yard; she is the scent of the century. The sixth window opens with forces far greater Than the things that move. Things I was not made for From the very beginning. Night fell upon it. Closed it Behind contradictions not often thought to be. My spirits light the alter before me. A place Of amber cords connecting me to a bunch of eyes Seeing things from aerie-shutters without The senses tangled in the traffic.
Posted on: Sun, 27 Jul 2014 21:07:43 +0000
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