An illusion of sufficiency adhered
to the world; an impression held
of great battles lost on the knives
that blue heroes shone on waste
lands and night's wide. Was it that
an answer at last had stitched itself
inside? Was it that the taste
of days had not this time dribbled
away in long leakages of savour?
Or that ghostly weather above,
smokily balletic as thoughts,
had seeded a fresh narrative
into the worn yarns of dried, inland
sailors? The heroes
were blue, beaten, and fell like ice.
The sun was singing through them.
Their statues, that loomed like sirens
above each forgetting daycallen,
summoners of tyres, offices, tarmac,
hushed and evanesced in whispers,
like crowds startled into people.
For this breath, at least,
the poem emerged
from the sky's head, and the thread
was spun, as to itself as lilies.
A Chide's Alphabet
Painting Without Numbers