Page 8 - Packing for the Apocalypse
P. 8
SOCIETY OF THINGS
POEM 3
Cupboards have a magic with contents. Keep them shut. Or they’ll reproduce. They will before you catch a breath of
Air. They don’t like air. They like dark. So may you. You may curl up in some Other life. Nothing but hair and eyes.
How dare you insinuate that I am that. My cupboards hold such irreplaceable Value. Manifestations of glorious past.
Future. Breath. Footfalls. Pen scrawls. Flute notes. Blown to the winds. And I may say, they are wonderfully mine.
Time: Pick me up in a red convertible. Where: Top down and a country road. How: I shall sail the sky with my palm.
Must I pack? But how can I pack when All this stuff persists, replicating itself. What doesn’t want to let me go, clings.
Uneasy residue of times uncompleted. Loved. Saved. Stacked. Framed. Hung. Or hidden to make way for a new love.
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