This is...
A meditation on wonder whilst knowing the end.
Or: Johann Bartholomeus Adam Beringer is dead!
Narrowest morning:
Paint blot moon in the cyan.
Sun blazed rising on a razor.
Swept pastel ribbons of cloud
gently compelled to flutter.
Storm line settles some distance away.
The cemetery always
in the grip of some chill.
It might be how it’s exposed:
On the hillside; trees far off.
Nylon flowers serve better here.
Concern glowers from oblong dull stones.
Bones lay evenly for all.
Lay flat a hand: see it.
Restful peace: a harmony.
Never lift another book.
Not another desirous grasp.
Let me pass without a touched wonder!
Lace of theories
do gather in the cemetery.
Colour of snakes’ skin.
Sharpness of citrus.
With chisel cuts to the day.
The truth: “No happiness before death”
There: a moment where,
wishing failure on despair,
dreamt stood on dust plane.
No soul shone round fair.
Compassion was my Hell
Birds left in massed shrieking squalls.
Bridge arched in wood.
Creeper branches arborescent.
Red berries dropping
like
notes from piano keys.
Onto deadening wires.
Their music ruining everything.
Blood pouring out.
On paper, blood-slipping,
words shifting as they soak.
Dropping like red berries.
Gloominess of thought.
Not particularly caring for this beauty.
