Constellations
Few understood grey more than Miro,
His grey outshines drawn constellations,
Consolation when stars blow, blobbing
pitch with peasants’ caps, geometric
Disorder, exile from death’s orders,
Tangential sky line, point and compass,
Parallel eternity, where stars
Go on and on and on, nothing more
To do with life haphazard, and all
The rainbow bombs of human fate.
In cities they don’t see the stars,
They blink them out with lights and cars.
They – Miro, Romeo – gleam unseen,
Juliet, even, stared at the sun,
A yellow cannonball lands each night,
Suburban blast furnace, a fire light
Driving roads, sparking fine, wine glasses
Sharding down joy’s pyre-in-light, and
The night sky screening out, left alone
In booths slow of contemplation, husks
And fossils on my plane’s sun-fuelled floor –
The airport plane chroming titan walls.
In cities they don’t see the stars,
They blink them out with lights and cars.
How garish can some streetlights be?
The window seat – give night’s face to me,
Small window, so even I might see
Miro’s constellations, grey-peak caps
Unseen, consolation beneath the
Plane’s slow rise, celebrated lift
On earthen glide, and the long wide deck
Of peace, through my starling’s eyes, a dove
In stars and planes and lines, parallel
Infinity, space geometric,
Eternity.
In cities we don’t see the stars,
We have become the stars instead.
Jezknee 