They have chorused down the taps,
warmed in the heat of an oven:
the eyes have turned back inside
themselves and toiled through
the dark filmmaking of mind,
being unreflective and dull,
and parted from a nature un-revealed
through want of looking:
The Tao is found
in the gaze of a sparrow.
There are three girls waiting and smoking
under a bus shelter. Shift workers passed,
glazed their cars in rain; cut black ice.
three girl’s arms crossed, cold white skin.
one scuffed her heels, traced a grove,
and came across an ancient foot print
set into poured concrete
where I stamped myself upon an age.
there was a time when all we needed was
a permanent black marker and a window
we drew on – reflections of ourselves
through the ce-fax of midnight.
a crisp packet ran a gutter and its
foil picked up the orange strip-lighting;
setting and night frequency
for the laureates of Sheffield road.
One bad morning, and so I went
down the backs out on the fields and saw
the auld man coyote walking in the mud
of his breasted virgin-mother – crone.
the glacial movement in his eye
(and the artic breath) considering
the sun as her belly button
that turns, flips on; then falls back and folds in.
He ‘slashes and burns’ the sky
for fresh saplings of rhyme
and she, ashamed of the piss and seamen
that seeps from the soles of our shoes
like the apache’s tears,
laid this net curtain – the night frosting
of twigs, fags, thickets, abandoned cars –
Did you know there are men who
don’t just glide like you or I?
but force pavement beneath to give,
and the earth to blush.
SENTINEL POETRY (ONLINE) #31, JUNE 2005. ISSN 1479-425X