Stuart Ross

Pages: 1 2 3 4

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.

 


Pages: 1 2 3 4

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