new


1
                             to pass through

                                we are both dying separately but somehow in the same room from
                                something incurable which the watching mind likens to aids, but
                                how could we get aids the watching mind also asks, we have tubes
                                in our noses and we are about the ages we are now but he is a little
                                older and he hits me because I am letting him down by dying, the
                                image ends there when I understand, crying

                                we are in the sea, clothed, planecrashed, shipwrecked, and he is
                                dead and we must let him go, his little body, to try to survive
                                ourselves, in the image there is no question we must survive and let
                                him float away into the dark noise of the sea and no amount of
                                touching wood or striking myself has dislodged this image

                                help me

2
strange routes appear in the music

to enter the quiet
               of paper
               no permission
               no-one hastening towards me with a passport

                              in which: red stems of the dogwood
                                              lighter than beetroot
                                              but still some blue in the colour

               the book becomes a box of particles
               not a necklace
                             pick it up and wait for it to focus
                             the way we used to wait for the telly to warm up

                             the singing thing: what is it now?
                             to know what it once was is no use

                             playing with how things sound
                             is better than silence

3
                 a long silence precedes an awakening

                             something knocking at matter from the other side
                             wanting in to the ending
                                           of all this bureaucracy
                                           the grief of adolescence
                                           the mirror
                                           the talking
                                           hands that throttle the iris
                                           knowing all this
                                           he edits

in which every castle was found to have been built on the wrong site
in which every cathedral was found to have praised the wrong god
in which every government was found to have quietly left the country
in which everything was wrong and the system that decided
wrong that wrong was itself the wrong name for wrong
that fucked said it better had always said it better

4
              what do the victors know?
                             I lost everything
                             and returned to all I love

to inch into the soil
to master the forces that suck planets over space
              that a flower should for a moment delight him
                                               
                                                                        in our grimy palms
               a picture of Sunday and the pots boiling
                                           our food speaks
                                           for a moment
                                                          a carrot with a small
                                           but cheerful personality speaking
                                                          with my voice against his cheek and
                                           kissing him will be cut
                                                           and eaten raw
                                           its voice a stain that helps us see

                                           a starlight full moon night
                                           with two relaxing vapour trails like horns
                                           above the house


         Keith Jafrate 2008