Violeta’s sweeping up the windy sand the sea
has left behind. She sees the dried and frail feathers
of what once had flown on seagull wings,
and now at rest, is thinking:
In my pseudo stasis, I have no purpose,
my birdful thoughts are beakless now,
but a splash of SA30 motor oil and I’d be
scrabbling on the beach.
In my youth, I glued a world together
with double sided tape. If I know myself,
I thought, I will know enough.
You and me, we found commiseration
and gave up nothing, we wrapped ourselves
in suffocation, spume and spindrift,
sparkling breathless bubbles of amnesia.
All I’ve done is calculate, but every spreadsheet
has a final row, with importune additions
A paroxysmal re-evaluation was the pretext
for my colorless montage, my fantasy escape
from solipsistic flywheels and orbital mechanics
to a less concentric solar system, where
lost planets hunt the lamprey in the ashen glow,
and where your heliosphere is a shredded dream,
a wordless mote, an atom in the cosmic flow.
You can take the bottled air, the sunblock,
and the congruence of triangles.
I’m afraid I’ve lost the catalog of Sundays.
When the rain has ended, and your two-tone pastel car
has left me, the children of the oceans will
submerge the final secrets.
The roaring gods of Hesikos and their ordinary
anodynes will be left behind—
sand-blown hieroglyphics carved
and read by fingertips.
narrative thread from fênix 6: the first night of the ultraviolet forever
Angus McVicar (1954) Return to the Lost Planet, Burke, London.