(in memoriam Thom Gunn, 1929-2004)
The nature of the sin
is by the patron’s blessing
made a virtue in the frightened day.
Carve the sky until smoke
billows and rolls, flames lashing
till eyes mist, unfit to describe.
Ashen doubt skips a hang-
man’s rope among its nervous
cousins, devils busy at division.
The words are ‘simplify’ and
‘trust’, and these the means
by which to stiffen limp belief,
hope into helium and drawn
into the doombright cloud
like a dazzled flock of magpies.
Simple, yes, but trust stays
in its raincoat by the door,
mystified as to summons or intrusion.
The heart is gorged upon
as though lost and found again,
as though desire were a distant second,
saliva mixed with bread,
paste into pellets for the
spastic birdies, baptized in a premature spring.
Come spiders down the wall,
a flurry of dancing masters,
tomcat ears the harbinger of rain.
Fourth note to follow a third,
the bronze head crying out the chord,
broom drawn near in whispering judgment.