The Principles On Southeast Center
I
how could i know him his eyes say
but my eyes reply which of us may speak to that
be busy in the house that needs fixing
despite histories in three
and homes as safe as the clicking of gates
and grassblades fidget at hems where summer whispers
bluegrey hands of the watering can
tuck layers against its lime-rimmed chest
II
he rips and hacks down and stacks the rubbish hastily
where the garbage bins once sat and even those
were absconded off in the short days after
what transience his playhouse has framed
now makes a curious fence for bikers towing their children
or friends chastening friends
perhaps your anonymous landlords
under the roof in the carshop
are objects as phantom as their own shadows
where the oilcan floor receives a calcified light
where congealed baydoors face clotted to the
life growing hardy and peculiar
below the synonymous rooftop
III
a dry-lipped curve of water
finds nerves beneath seventeen windowbars
so that all is safe and the insides are secure
they rumor threats and do they make those too
armed with the fact of so many bars
she sobs
and the way my nerves shake like grass-light
and the bald man there with the timid grip looking at her
where even the garbage bin is gone
i rarely do see her
once i saw her smile furtively
suddenly a vulgarity in earshot
my brother coughs laughter off his gridlined paper
to me or to the world or to the story he was written into
and i laugh a foreign neighborly coin
IV
hit the rode jack plays splashes of whiskey
we jesters overhear police uniforms walking heads down
their feet chaperoning them from the backyard
the screwed up faces of strangers cum luna
you ever see anything like that
and the other bursts a reflux of no up from his throat
seen bodies but not like that man
all of this in the synoptic lidless eye of his flashlight
hit the road jack plays obscenely for the residents
and absurd vultures pick for audiovideo giblets
well the cats have a new place behind what is for us
the portcullis of our home
V
the cat is notorious from the flyer on the pole
the father fixes everything he can
and transient eyes look upward in the night
at catshadows scratching the air
our fence was his playhouse was his rubbish is a ribcage
young ones arent a problem but we still need to keep watch
because no one will do it until someone does it and then everyones doing it
Copyright © Andrew Gallagher | Year Posted 2012
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