Recall

On the thirty-ninth step,

Mr Memory (for it was he)

Realized that nothing mattered

Anymore,

And that Winnipeg

Was no longer a city

In Canada;

That Tokyo had taken off

And landed in Alaska;

Moscow had become Vienna

And London had flown.

Time lay abandoned,

Its future unknown.

He watched the gulls

Circling,

Or thought he did,

Because the sky had fled

Along with the land;

The wind had given up

The ghost;

Nature lay silent

And, in some freak collusion,

Poetry had become prose.

Mr Memory

Left the world naked,

Much as he’d entered it,

Leaving no epitaph

Or forwarding address;

Just one more enigma

In infinite space.

Dream On

They’re coming for you,

The lives you ignored:

Those little people

Passing below,

Morning and evening.

Asleep at noon,

You feel yourself adored,

A Klee or Kandinsky,

Inventing some brave new world.

Achieving glory

As an artist should,

While clutching the duvet tight.

Dream on,

Ignoring the creak

On the stairs:

The scuffle of shoes

And murmured threats,

Spurred on by

The landlady’s whispers.

Voices

The voice in your headphones

May be wrong

When it says the painting ‘breathes’.

There are no obvious signs.

The voice is blind:

It can’t see thoughts;

But nor can you.

Jumping a few old masters,

You move on:

A minute per picture

Seems too short

For a lifetime’s effort.

You are a masterpiece,

Needing no expert commentary

To prove yourself.

Back in the open air,

You sit, perplexed,

Consulting the day for answers.

And who’s to say

That darkening scene

In front of you

Isn’t some future Rembrandt?