in the garden with a poet
after clutching at living so long
we had forgotten to be alive –
and now it was night – David McLean Sitting with the blackbird’s song and
the clamorous virus that is thinking. The invidious penumbra of biography a dark lie. The same sun: the same fat yellow eye
that never cries. Turning pages: a mortal narrative like everything
living, while those who wish to abrogate the volume
of their diseases forget memory and senescent cells. Days are here – untidy. That is the beauty
of light: it illuminates the mess
for embracing. We are a long time nothing. There is no place
to exhibit the night like a sword.
Inspired by reading ‘laughing at funerals’ by David McLean, available here.