ISSN 1758-6488
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Four poems Poetry |
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That Note
Like Miles Davis’ dark Arkansas roads
the tone I was after lay listless and dreaming
as we rode the sea lanes deep in Dublin Sound.
On either side of the waters we were crossing
lay cable, freight line, pipes of city joy,
and barely visible, though gleaming and new,
an audible pitch of beads and corded wire -
weird acoustics slumbering in their alloy.
And I knew it was there, like the shudder
in a mass light years away shows
the hidden path of a polished ball of ice,
come this way with its heart on fire.
And that solder, that rich conspiracy of brass
and copper, a flame in the blood unlike
the one art melancholy of a polder grove,
or the straight on certainty of a 30’s autobahn,
so it feels like time itself or a bolt
from its legions has come to this span we inhabit
to count on and improvise, that note.
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