Here's a poem, anyhow, rather than anything else. I wrote this late last
year and took it to an informal workshop in a theatre bar on Friday last
when I at last found out what it was about.
Best
Dave
Until the Spectrum Meanwhiles
Shades of grey settle with the pigeons that now
_became skin on my hand_. A flake touch. A puff
like a dandelion wish, a lifeline to yez. Scatter
full of feathers fall, a thought jumps, not to be touched
till time tell answer you. That's an abstract
for ya's, a tree bustled with an invisible,
that lets its guillotine down. Blade, tree fall,
like just, a pediment of the masonry
of whatever buttress against nothing you barter.
Now pigeon come back, billing in the park,
pigeons, of a like kind, a mottle little
alter, a different turn to the same air.
So I let them pigeon go. Go letters go over
on a containment of a sky. Can see still
this boy let's pretending to be tree, a name
in a petrified forest, unable to move for a cloud
of feathers in his hand, and can he, I, touch them,
these differents, those other ways, shades of grey?
