|Oct/Nov 2007 Poetry|
Still Life with Mellifluous Strings
Scorpio hangs in the sky—tail limp, sting forgotten.
Orion drops his arm. Cassiopeia sits still in her cold and
uncomfortable chair. Honey has become the only colour
in the universe—a muted glow rolling over darkness.
It's mid-September before you learn that there are words
you never speak in the presence of the stars—their desire
to whisper secrets to the trees is irresistible. Listen: leaves
part like lips. A wish removed. An eyelash plucked
and cast on a midnight breeze. Behind black branches,
the moon rolls over, soaking up dreams like a sponge.
In the shadows, you fist tightens around a wishbone,
smooth and coated with the dust of disappointments.
You've waited long enough to be touched. Your hands
have lost all purpose; there is nothing left to hold.