A Cake

Above his bed,
a cloud of midges 
foment a torment

that blends with the day’s
airs

and the noise to the west
that signifies nothing

is a gust 
in a jar 

a fumarole inside an envelope
of assumptions


the blue birds floating

overhead
as if suspended in jello

their wings outspread.


One day as I sat on the banks of lough Derg,
The figure of the  Medici princess, as treated by Cornell,
Seated herself before me, with her quiet eyes.

My bella compagno, sit with me and shine. . . .
Beauty has been killed by the excesses of time.

**

He had dreamed of her before,
walking down the strand at Inch.

But this time
there was a sense of darkness

in the sand, the waves, the line of cars,
and the clouds that fumbled overhead 

slowly, so slowly, 

like pillows for the dead.

**

In their dream the figurative has fallen away
and the force beneath is what remains.

Mosquitos float
in the shapes of infants

the pink fat creased at the knees
and elbows.

Spoons widen their mouths
until they cannot close them.

Still, they whisper furiously

around the okra
and niblets.



 
 

 

— David Hickman