SALT TRUCKS OUT ON THE STREET

SALT TRUCKS OUT ON THE STREET

Salt trucks out on the street. Black ice.

Noah’s wife salted like Carthage.

The town encased in a glass patina.

The storefront windowpanes are jealous.

Orange pygmy snowplows

seeding salt and gravel on the sidewalks.

Ladybugs about their business.

Butter on a black mirror smeared

like a palette of streetlights and logos.

One misstep and you’re on your ass again.

The night is sumi ink.

There are no revisions.

Who didn’t expect

to die on the highway tonight?

Whose heart breaks like a poppy

glazed by the freezing rain?

Who's been broken off

the brittle tree of life

like a twig that snaps underfoot

to give the nightbirds under the eaves a warning

and the presence of something foreboding away?

Accidental, trivial, random, happenstantial,

how much that was imperatively crucial

perished for nothing tonight

like the driver of a tractor-trailer

that jack-knifed on the backroad to Plevna,

haemorrhaging alone miles from the nearest farm

while the ice fell from the aspen trees

like eggshell light bulbs

and forsaken chandeliers?

I stare blankly through a veil

of freeze-framed tears

crudely woven on the loom of the bug screen

at the subatomic causes

of astronomical catastrophes

and think of the collateral damage

of something so slight as a drop in the temperature.

Three degrees warmer and you would have lived.

But just as wet and three degrees colder

and you would have lived.

No malice. No mercy.

No one to look over the fallen sparrow.

You’re a casualty, you’re a tragedy,

you’re a victim, a bitter fact, an act of God

in a godless universe

that’s anything but self-evident

to those who can’t see in it

either a blessing or a curse

or believe the worst

always works out for the good, better, best

of a cold front that was just passing through.

Who added their emptiness to the abyss tonight

as if they were returning their lives

like shattered windshields

to the frozen watersheds

they took them from

as their broken bodies freeze to the pavement

until they’re discovered in the morning

and chipped away

like a statue by Michelangelo

who could see form in stone

and where the cracks in the marble lay

like fault lines and dangerous stretches

of asphalt highway we fall through

when the earth gapes

and swallows us whole

like a snake you can’t train

to bite other people

that eats its own reflexively.

I’ve tried to reconcile absurdities.

I’ve tried to measure the worth of a human,

noble and ignominious alike,

against the indignity of the way we die

but the scales limp with a heavy foot

as if they’d had a stroke

that paralysed them on their left side,

and left them with no feeling on the right.

PATRICK WHITE

ONE DAY YOUR MOUTH

ONE DAY YOUR MOUTH

One day your mouth just opens

like a rose or an eye or an oyster

that bloomed in the night

when you weren’t looking

and whispers things you should have said

in the defense

of your own innocence

and didn’t, things

that should have been defended with fire

but were washed away with tears

and the bitter acids of high ideals

like a poem in the rain.

I lie, but never out of fear;

and when I lie it’s always

an attempt to heal, to clean, to dress

that gash of a murderous fact

or remove the thorn, the claw, the fang

the sickle of the crescent moon

from a wounded heart

that hasn’t tasted life enough to know

why the blood is made of iron.

I mingle a little shadow in with the light,

a little wine with the vinegar

when the truth has no eyelids

and the bitter cup is full of bleach; I let love

sweeten the green apple

and err on the side of compassion

when the windfall needs a face-lift.

I don’t grow gardens

in the dirt under my fingernails

or drive a golden chariot through a slum,

but a few geraniums on the windowsill

can’t hurt the view.

And what can come of trying to pour

the ocean into a tea-cup

when all that’s needed

is a quick rinse in a bird-bath,

or a few drops of holy water

through a sieve? Terminal

literalism and contagious symbolitis

are the snake-oils

of fraudulent medicine-men.

The truth is a scaffolding

to climb up on and paint

and I never sing in the same tree twice.

But I steal, from everyone, chronically,

dreams, visions, glimpses, insights,

the little jewels of wisdom

that fall from their signet rings, plunder

whole mansions of emotion

in a single night,

a cat burglar on the fifteenth floor

of a tower of moonlight, seeds,

feathers, leaves, flowers,

names and faces, I’m a thief of fire,

a pickpocket and klepto-crow

with a passion

for the silver things of life,

a b. and e. artist with an ear

for encrypted vaults

where they keep the safety deposit boxes

like black holes crammed with stars,

a grave-robber looking for afterlives

to fence to the living, a professional booster

who can walk into any solar system

in a t-shirt

and amble out with a planet.

I once sold Mars in a bar

to a drunken movie-star,

but I’ve never wanted anything

that wasn’t mine, or the wind

couldn’t get its hands on,

or I wouldn’t receive if I asked,

like certain hearts that have accused me

of being in possession

of stolen property. Even the poems I flog

are hot, but like the rain and the sun

I lifted them from

I give to the rich and poor alike

with an empty hand

and the budding daffodil

of an open mike, stealing the Buddha’s purse

to buy the Buddha’s horse.

And it’s true, I’ve been violent,

cracked a few skulls, deviated

more than one septum, but only

when attacked or cornered

or on behalf of the weak and hapless,

gone out to the parking lot

and given as good as I got,

stood up and got counted

then quickly dismounted my rage,

turned the page, not

my cheek and in a week or two

when the swelling’s gone down

and the teeth marks on my knuckles

haven’t turned into aids,

like any cosmic ape or alpha chimp

with gargantuan glands

tried to play the sage

and walk away with a cosmic limp

and eons of blood on my hands.

But as I said, I lie,

and now that I’ve written this

to set the record straight

thinking I had good cause

to touch up my portrait a bit

I confess

between the cracks and the flaws

and the lines around my eyes

I can see another face

that isn’t a disguise

beneath the layers of paint

staring out at me

like a demon in the heart of a saint

who knows what I am

and scoffs at what I ain’t.

PATRICK WHITE