[Poetry] The private courtyards of our ambitions


The private courtyards of our ambitions:
So pristine and opulent and bare.
Will we ever get used to the sight of
Dead winged things lying blood-stained
On the floor around the singing fountain?

A car passes, and another.
A surveillance camera staring at an empty square.
Moisture condensing on a metal wrist watch –
Even the cats have gone to sleep.

A bedroom without a view:
So many curtains, draperies, layers –
The what is happening is not allowed to sound.
Rocks embracing themselves in dry desire
And the smell of dead skin. The air-con is exhaling the
Song of a dry kind of love – a dry kind of love
That squeaks when pressed and folded
Like a book that once got wet.
(In a basement – a pipe broke – who knows?)

Someday Someone Will
Take this hand and hold it
And say nothing. We all excel in saying nothing
As if language was invented for this exact reason.
Particular identities now spinning like revolvers:
We shoot ourselves at others all day long.

So many things and we lost the hour.
Since when does desire drip like a tap?
Setting the table for an eternity
And what a delightful piece of furniture the piano is.
When the oceans rise to reclaim the continents
Where do you hold on to? What do you keep?

A car passes, and another.

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