Stuart Ross
Waves of a Useless Sky
Say how pleased you are.
A hunched and marvellous
kiss. I rumble with ideas:
an average idea, a luminous idea,
an idea that struts, puffed,
through the sky.
You and your
far-off limbs, wandering
amid the sequined detritus,
the indignant beach of toxicity.
It is true: I have changed.
Once I was a sofa, lost
in the wind.
Now I am a horse,
I mean a house, swimming
through the waves of a useless sky.
Reminder: the quiet supermarket
yields love, yields headlines,
yields a special kind
of wakefulness. So far,
nobody argues.
A thing
with a face desires nothing,
whispers pleasingly, launches us
into the lecturing night.
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