SCARECROW
this
my transparent, liquid window
give us our dreams
our daily dead
sound without meaning
words without end.
sweep this.
collecting debris
for the sake
of some little gravity.
this shaped pattern:
small notion wrapped in upon
ghosted misted identity
forgetting sunsets
to inhabit the dawn,
a superstitious equation
bequeathed a pulse.
lay it down,
lay it all down,
open and dancing
up to the mountains.
this thread now,
this chariot –
broken star fragment
drowned in salt.
lay the fire to the green fields
flesh in new colour,
frost-patterned, cool.
still the eye, the tongue, the demon.
still the angel,
still the urgent bright ones.
still the whispers,
still the memory.
this house perched high,
this sunlit porch
this upturned story
this dewy claxon.
give us our dreams
our daily dead
sound without meaning
words without end.
amen.
—
simonhlilly 