The deleterious delirium of
the Styx-swimming feeling,
I breached out of a warm bed
to a cold world and thought how
cold the bed was too. The distance’s
ache to the pill-bottle popping
for vitamin C, another silence splitting.
~
In the park, the au pairs’ arms
oil-rig pump th e swings to gush
blood to the legs of the occupieds’
orphans, their simpering smiles
shrouding the tears they knew their
mothers could keen back home,
wherever land heads lie.
~
I trembled like young December
next to the native growth garden,
new-tree simulacra of deep forests
forgotten, and listened draught-full
for advice on how to stand, when
to bend, why to grow.
I wrote this in the autumn of 2011.
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