Clouds shaped like lovers,
A giraffe without a neck,
And skeletons in cupboards.
Cloud topiarist,
We seek perfection and yet
The nearest shears are in heaven.
Metallic balls on a yttrium string
Swing rhythms on a table;
Dead offices; disconsolation.
Was there ever a collective
Endeavour roaming
Worth our reminiscence?
It remains an open secret,
There are many dead men walking
And living people buried;
This is what occurs
When graves within my sleep interred
Are kept broken, undelivered.
I hear recurring prophecies –
Spiral vortex dreams –
A financial offshore tremor,
A van concealing hostages
In flags of white and blue,
Loaded guns, rooms in rubble.
If over nations clouds remained
They often gave that day a name,
Apartment diaries, online news,
Then happy in this skylight citadel
Are those murdered few,
For at their graves
Where clouds give shape
They’re brought to life
By a drama or two.
