There are so many words about this - and adding to that pile is useless
I remember reaching the rose out towards you as you walked
the line - it was peach and you took it and smiled into my face
Someone behind you would collect all the hundreds of flowers
and place them into a car
a whole car for flowers
I think about the driver - the person in the suit and hat driving flowers
through the streets of Banbury - passed the cross
naked and ringing in the light of all those faces
This was probably 91 and you were so loved and so shining and perfection
unattainable was yours - the woman getting it all
and then some
It was before revelation - before you sat alone on the bench in India
the shock of your red and purple - the so very alone-ness of it
the breaking down of the metaphor - accident - and not
The first wife - in the tomb - alone and objectified - glowing forth
how prophetic and strange
that life can be both oracle and stasis field
Piles of static collect around this tomb and your own - they mulch
I think about my childhood - and I have nothing
to further the sound of my voice
I don't have comparison - there is no doorway to open here
just the hanging moment of child arm and hand reaching
out - a long stem covered in thorns - pointed like a question
The answer in that car - that will forever be driving away - forever
smelling of too many flowers
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| Source - Dave Chancellor/Alpha |
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