Adrian Lenthall
Bloom
So the god of turning up half-heartedly
has blessed the free wine. The sun
has caught fire and no-one pinches it out.
People swell in bunches until bloom rubs bloom
and you know, or resurgent nature tells you:
don't butterfinger this moment thinking
how to bring it on again against night,
against leaf-fall. Let it come,
let go. And since you're not wrong,
what is this rampant joy that mounts
in the child up the steps to the slide,
and up the steps to the slide, and up
the same steps to the same slide?
We rise, we fall; or we fall, we rise.
His fire glazes me. Is the pot more the clay
or the clay more the pot? Beneath us singular Terra
spins in perpetual metre its unrepeatable
form, its endless skin.
Page(s) 57
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