by Bruce McRae
Among the refined essences.
Among the hours, the talcum and what is physical.
Rising with the thermals and driven by will,
lifted up, carried like a lapdog or a child,
bathed in humours, basking in time’s indifference.
Lying next to the oryx and cerval cat.
Under the thumb of the sun and tongue of the lash.
In shops and mines and fields of rape.
Of this world, its apes and animals and ledgers.
Here, because there is no other where to be.
Now, the eternal compressed to minutes.
While galaxies collide and artists coin perception.
On and on, the acts, the names, the instances.
Countless. Numberless. Untold.
So many truths. So many misconceptions.
These seething waters, this unstable earth
seedbed to the children of consciousness and conscience,
individuals the creators of cosmos, swooning
at the foot of the grave, one hand rocking the cradle,
the other covering their eyes in bright light,
incapable of seeing the future or recalling what’s passed,
memories fading like a colour or woodsmoke.
The kings and queens of fire at the end of the world,
made invisible, but once of the Earth.
Then silent. Then more silence.