Here (and There)

(like Herod in his rage)
way back inside this icy sky
the stars no longer blur (the dirt itself
has had its fill of blood by now)
the mystery is shining up there calmly
the cars are clean by rain
water pools and holds without vibration another smaller sky
(they burn the fathers and the big boys first)
and when the cold arrives the skin pulls tight
the bones inside the hand articulate
as if each were about to leaf

a nurse on an elderly bicycle (seen from above)
her long white coat that flutters in the breeze she makes
(a sight for snipers and the devil roars for borderland
the dirty smoke from burning piles of meat is there
that gives him appetite)
in season, inside the raw glory of weeds
across an icy wall as strong as doubt
(a place that lives inside the glass
and handsome voices only)
where the river lies taut, preoccupied
a slow delicious moon lies trapped
green and oblong in the temporary surface
the wind is stirring in the grass
thin angels stand in double flowers
names of the slain are blue and blurred beneath their skin

Robert Gregory | Mudlark No. 17
Contents | Blueish City