The future seems already
a refurbishment of the standing
crap and dead wood bunkered in the street,
a younger version of the linoleum unfurled
over maps of the milk trade in Delft.
certain as the past is flat,
an arc of extremism drawn out from a left
eye, through the number 20, and on down.
In its virgilian folds there is striding,
occasional clapping of hands in restless rage
or health; beyond a dado rail which spurts first relation
all the flesh tones live again, high
and hard as a braced saddle which
you’ve ridden a shine.
There she is, the person,
length and curl of her hair intimidating
brace against familiarity, even in this
opening wind. How then the wind snapped
from other countries, over the trains
the adult street full of unworkable crap,
was unbreakable in trees that shake it
now like a yoke, filling with wildest pathos.
Claws into sight. Gets the all clear.
And this, motion of a praying
mantis or common green fly
over the motherboard, what does it look like
from up there, the sliproad
out? An impertinence? Scallop shell
aching in the back, insertion of the foot
of a dinosaur, a slim boned paddle,
that’s already echoing like a radio signal
from the discovered continent: from historical
muck, the builders, the drowning.
All around us the future bristles
can’t be thumbed, though they lick us
into shape, down with flecks of brown
blood this overcompensating neck; what rose
seems stubbornly inadequate – the coliseum,
some chases there – but still so loved
it is forever helpful, forever dangerous.