JUST BEFORE DAWN VENUS IN LEO BETWEEN
THE MOON AND THE BEEHIVE NEBULA
Just before dawn Venus in Leo between
the moon and the Beehive Nebula.
The chimney of the old shoe factory
reflected
like a toppled obsidian obelisk in the
Tay River.
Couldn’t sleep. Now I’m heading
home with the bats and the ghosts.
I’ve firewalked enough tonight, and
the coals are beginning to dim
in the ashen light of my waning
spirits.
The Perth Soap Factory still hasn’t
managed to imperialize
the fragrance of the last of the
wildflowers crowding
the crumbling parking lots and leftover
wedges of field,
but it’s trying. I envy a squirrel
its quick Zen energy.
And three crows think they know
something about me.
Happens a lot in a small town, as I
know you know,
because someone you know told me. You
must think
I’m crazy talking to the air as if it
were you,
but even out here, you’ve been inside
of me all night,
and now it’s time to make some space
for you beside me.
I like the feline water sylphs that
follow me home
like feral cats in the early morning
when there’s dew
on the brass heritage plaques of the
lawyer’s offices
with ultramarine peacock’s eyes
waxing in the windows.
I’ve been learning to play Jeremy’s
violin on my spinal cord all night
to see if I can get you up and dancing
like a kite with no strings
in a gust of stars. But so far all I’ve
managed in my solitude
with you as my intriguing familiar is a
happy kind of hangover
from a seance just you and I attended.
But I’ll get better.
You’ll see. I’ll master this new
medium of picture-music
half way between witchcraft and
mystery. And beyond
if you want to walk with me that far.
Or fly, if that suits you better.
Pick a star. Or the softer option of a
nebula, knowing you
as I’m beginning to. Alcyone in the
Pleiades, perhaps.
Or maybe an unknown destination that
exceeds
the wavelengths of the speed bumps of
the asphalt starmaps.
I’ll go there with you. And I’m as
loyal as a skull.
PATRICK WHITE
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