Miracle Station, image by AC Evans
MIRACLE STATION
Sphinx
lightning suddenly
backlit
the skeleton rain
as
the greyness dissolved.
Love
notes from the future
are
all I have left of you,
the
dust you left behind.
There
is a place for your,
for
my, for our, self-obsession
and
compulsive disorder.
I
am the protagonist
and
you were my lover.
Now,
the sun is still.
Honeysuckle,
I am
thinking
of you, exhaling
lust
in the plural.
I
breathe but you don't.
We
sing makeshift shanties
to
pass our time together,
are
guided by the blind
toward
ascension and
sound
embodying space.
There
is no room for flesh,
no
place for the soul.
Abstain
from life,
it
is too perplexing,
like
paintings about paint
or
the kettle and teapot
nailed
to the gallery wall.
This
is the passing point,
with
little room for manoeuvre,
this
is where life flowers
and
towers of emotion fall.
You
are my kaleidoscope girl,
the
splinter of light in my eye.
I
am comfortably accomplished
at
making yesterday better.
Hyacinth,
your memories fade
in
the smoke and mirrors of desire,
fields
of fire across the land.
—Rupert M.
Loydell
