Thursday, May 7, 2015

Afterlife of A Demonstration (1981)


It is the soul

of the souless condition...

                                   John Desmond Bernal


She is dead in a dead building in the dead of night.

The word becomes triple distilled extracting

the essence of ghost, ruin and stillness.


In the corner, a moth clings to a cobweb.

Its wings translucent and veined in green

like the scarf she wore earlier -- protesting.


The streets were old brick -- strewn with lilac leaves

and people marching in the cool light of Spring, The sun's flicker

serving as their candle. Somewhere else, a brass valve turned on

releasing a shot of air that erupted in flames. Something was flung

into an antique warehouse  -- gutted and muraled with graffiti.


No broken glass but fragments

of porcelain-pale bone. Later, she awoke here. Her shadow molted

as she watched the lace wing shimmer 

in fragility like the silken cloth -- she bought but couldn't afford.


Low wages led to this --

crossing over from a single word

to another kind of  holy trinity.

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