THE KITE UNDOES ITS OWN STRING
The kite undoes its own string like a spinal cord hydro line
it stole like a line of poetry from the sheet music
of the Zeitgeist reading its own crystal skull
as if there were too many notes in it to call.
See stars. See birds on a stave. See music x-rays
from the grave like the visual fragrance of what we are.
All night long on the corner of Clinton Street and Desolation Row.
Gore and the Universe at a restaurant called Passiflora.
In the bright sunshine, tanning, at a table outside,
so you didn’t look like a blade of stargrass under a yellow board.
As if things were too good to be true. When
you didn’t think about things like the raw, new moon of a tumour.
And tiny ice pellets flicked like whips and ladyfingers
into your face like Tom Thomson considering one of his paintings
by firelight in the parking lot outside the emergency entrance
to suicide. Stark, bleak, helicopters, I bet you weren’t expecting that,
like dragonflies landing on a lily pad that’s lost its flowers.
Is this genius? Is this madness? Who cares?
Come along for the ride and pretend you’re sick.
Sick people like sick people better in a hospital
reading Jean Paul Sarte and Beckett while they’re waiting for Godot
like a fly on a wall they wished they listened to but I don’t.