I have so little time now, what is it like?
(Moon one, moon two, slight moon, May moon, dusky moon suspended)
Like nothing, those little cracks in the starlight
and the whole attic falling open, forgetting like your touch
and the thunder saying 'dada' 'mama' 'dada'
(Moon one, moon two, slight moon, May moon, dusky moon suspended)
The whole of April curls in the palm
light becomes powder becomes the breeze
pistacchio shells in a small faun bowl, some green
like oxidised copper but all mixed in
with generalised stars, and the dream reports
of a Magnum .44 — dressed in points like Orion
Analysis enters, mythically or crude like Cupid or Bottom
and a storm over the Urals is saying
'clichés' 'clichés' and stamping visas: it's so strange
the nearer you get in
but now, I feel I can really call this the night

One: how can we say that?
Two: how can we get back?
Slight: just an off-the-shoulder number
May: speaking of possibility…
Dusky, suspended: but we'll get back to that

Resurrection, but to no heaven
Resurrection, but to no heaven…

There's so little time now, what is it like?
(Moon one, moon two, slight moon, May moon, dusky moon suspended)
It's impossible, but the universe has become ulterior
like a story you can never, ever hear
and Tuesday dices you with Wednesday and Monday
peeling open to reveal marine light over the market stalls
a sky the colour of musselshells
and dressed in lambswool Poetry enters head full of nursery rhymes
Little Bo Peep and Little Boy Blue
the enzymes of rhymes, Charles Darwin with a migraine —
(moon one, moon two, slight moon, May moon, dusky moon suspended) —
suddenly 'Love' is the word all other words come to
like a mother
as if they've grazed their knees or don't know how to cry
or how to describe an exit wound or the smell of piss in doorways:
The game's the thing and Learn the rules
real rain is saying, Then play

But what is it like?

It's good, I want it
It's full of the people I love, directions and everywhere
This is the sun-driven night
I'll speak about encapsulation, then I'll stop laughing
I'll stop playing and there'll be no more kissing

Empty boats, and the absolute peace, no one can even think of it
Scraped plates, evidence of memories, our carnal lists,
hit-lists and wish-lists, wish-lists, hit-lists
The sea, shaped like a road, shaped like a wish
The resolved, violets and dandelions, so much to come afterwards
The comment, the 'about', stand-offish but still so punctual
The tide, hit-lists and wish-lists, wish-lists, hit-lists
The dice, who I was, rolling still feeling
The salt bars, salt locks, salt keys, salt bolts, salt grooves

The moon

The moon

Copyright © Michael Ayres, 2003.

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