Three ghosts are in the hall. On the cable
internet outside, two currawongs are pecking,
but the mysteries of past and present,
of calendars, dates and numbers are best
left for numerical processors.
When time was thick and sweet and I couldn’t breathe,
when you wept and left me wondering,
when the blue of clouds and day was painted
on the land to resist the night’s temptations,
I could start six lines and finish them,
know what I’d just said and order wine.
Now the solar Ferris wheel has turned,
carried me over Russian mountains.
I don’t remember what you told me,
poetic hair or teeth,
just a building, storied glass and steel,
with heat reflective windows.
Was I less than spiteful?
Was I more than shallow?
Between the poles outside, the wind is billowing,
tearing thoughts from trees
to be raked up by my neighbors.
I hear plaintive cawing sounds,
the currawongs conversing.
I’ll wait for you in the raindrop castles of the sky
my love, eternally until forever.
My fluttering flower, once you’ve said
eternally, forever is redundant.
They must have pecked into a streaming TV movie.
I like the idea of birds or insects talking to each other, it started when I re-read the Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge—the chat between the Polar Spirit’s fellow demons.