The sergeant laughs with strong teeth,
his jackboots nestle under the springbok horns.
Those bayonets are silent,
the spear of the nation gone to the ground.
Warriors prowl in the stars of their dungeons.
I’ve seen the nebulae of a man’s eyes
squirm with pain, he sang his life
through cosmic volleys. They call it
genital therapy, the blond bosses.
Why is there no more news?
Bluetits scuffle in the eaves of England,
an easy summer shimmers on the water.
Fields of peace, I lie here
in the music of your gaze
so beautiful we seem no strangers.
Curling smoke, a white butt is
brother to my lips and fingers.
You watch the ash on grass blades gently crumble.
Your hands are small as roses,
they cancel memory.
Once going down to the sea through the mountains
my limbs felt freedom in the glide of air:
over the bridge at the window I found
speech an impossible cry.
Under the fatal shadows spun down the chasm
my heart squirmed in the throat of snaking water.
I have since forgotten what they call that place.
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