This has been lurking, dozing and not doing much for a while...
(possibly good reasons for that) but (or, so) I submit it for comment,
criticsism, etc...
Giving It Some Air
So you talk about sound, about the choppers in Apocalypse Now,
how dislocated noises have to be, as jets - first one, then the always other
-
scuff across Northumberland, each swung like a crucifix necklace,
passing large as the tractor, practising for the wars on the evening news
and we see their advancing dog-nosed silence, the pilots’ helmets,
the after shakes that fill the valley head, each affirming they’re so real,
because everything’s in flight, my words, your words, the wind
that invisibly leans on us, grinds the atoms of our world elsewhere,
brings back to us molecules we’d forgotten we uttered weeks before,
and we continue, sometimes shaping things with hands, opening gates,
closing them, catching each other up, repeating history again,
returning to the car, changing, dropping muddy boots on the front page
and we hear it rip under the scrape of our mud on its photograph -
tearing through a peacekeeper’s troop carrier, a pick-up truck, refugees.
Bob Cooper
N.B. It's all supposed to be in long lines (if your screen drops words down,
so just one or two appear on a separate line, then they're supposed to be
stuck on after the words on the previous line).
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