don’t fear the dark.
The ghost can’t turn the pages far.
I think of him sprawling,
a titan carving up the pavement.
The brain which dared risk time
away from Heaven now ascends there.
Further on, I walk at night and see
hanging from axiomatic suburban trees
his body as it mollifies the dark.
The touching hands thrown wildly aside.
The loathing rictus etched in love
by two star points beguiling.
That’s the word.
The fabled tongue feels out the murk.
Bulge. The body dances aridly to Bach.
No doubt God lives forever (so he’d portend)
but nonetheless, gripped
with suspicion of a deeper message,
I resummon from the column inches life;
too happy and self-conscious to aggrandise
the real and urgent Yale screed that
limb-twists moral force within a grave.
I can be a murderer tonight. Visions of
reuniting that ghost with his ghost
colour my cheeks.
Patricia must hang too, somewhere –
suspended just as aridly from Heaven,
waiting. Someone’s here.
I close my eyes to music and divine the knowing,
found beyond sensed acquisition,
that somewhere love survives.
Just this love maybe – or all that
meet a certain quality.
Elitism befits a Buckley.
I know they made it though – they
knew it too.
I push away lingering fears –
to do with worried, wasted tears,
and eyes which glimpsed
the victorious eternity of:
Push these things away.
I trust the man. His eyes
could clearly see the dark.
Wherever he went
he knew he was going.
His loneliness was very brief
and ended for whatever reason.
But ended. Yes.
somehow he did so immune
to bad divinations –
often known as ‘bad news’
in Christian nations.
About these axiomatic suburban trees:
do they too mollify the dark?
No – just each other,
lining up to reverberate my visions
of a ghost within them, waiting.
Please come down and save me,
Perhaps having created Heaven
by outwitting nothing
Without a full stop I notice it still ends