AND I KNOW SO MUCH

And I know so much before I’ve even thought it

that I’ve already gotten over you years from now

when we’ll pass each other on a winter bridge

huddled in our own lives like two black comets

who vaguely recognize each other

too far from the sun to shine,

spectres of ice and somnambulistic hydrocarbons

that once flaunted their omens and overtures

in the face of astrological assassins

that tried to use us as an excuse for history.

But now, among farewells that matter less

than the flanking manoeuvers

and overextended supply lines of the gored moon,

among the embittered swords

of the ceremonious clock

surrendering to its own wounds,

the bleached flag of its bloodstream

the eclipse of a poppy at halfmast,

I have nothing to offer you

but this small grey boat of a life sunk

halfway between the sea and the rain,

bobbing for planets in a swill barrel, blind-folded,

too much of an export of hope to hope

for a bright wind in a dark sail.

And what a fool to think

I could row all the way to the moon

on a single drop of water,

but the dreamers have as much to say to the stars

as the rivers do to the oceans,

or the mountain to the valley

or the wasp in the mouth of the rock,

and who can translate

the gibberish of the fireflies

into the eloquent salons of the morning glory

without making a buffoon of himself?

A rose is a bee is a clown

who’s learned how to forsake himself

in the name of a prayer with a sense of humour,

for an umbrella in the spotlight.

How many times, the night tense with tigers

and slapstick drumrolls of heroic thunder

did I crawl into my own erection

like a bridal bouquet in pyjamas and goggles

to be shot out of a cannon at you, high in the stands,

a trajectory beyond the safety net?

I don’t know where desire goes when it’s rejected

but when it comes back

resolved to be magnificent

in front of a firing squad,

it always tastes of tin and desolate paint.

That’s why I’ve made a mirror of my tears

and washed my face off like a wounded rainbow in a telescope

pointed at you, a full house, high in the stands

of a prime-time constellation, the safety, on.

PATRICK WHITE