in the whitening centre of chrysanthemums there is a dying sun - all
that boiling hydrogen which here metamorphoses into a flower curling
up in its organic stench before my eyes - perhaps it is like the pain
in my scalp, a white node of numbness which spreads itself along my
skull as intimately as muscle - it sounds like that riddle of the two
eyes, the pond and the sun, each looking at each other - of course I
know it's only error to invent rhymes everywhere, to invest a star
with consciousness and vision - perhaps it makes our love more
bearable, for how does one stand such ephemerality? - this shadow of
flowers falling across the room in the early electric light no less
permanent than the clatter of plates in the next room, or this aching
brain dissolving itself in words, or the children who move within
themselves restlessly towards a larger light
Alison Croggon
6.34am, Melbourne, Australia
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Alison Croggon
Editor
Masthead Online
http://au.geocities.com/masthead_2/
Home page
http://www.users.bigpond.com/acroggon/
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