James Deboo
An Obvious Question
What is this place,
where currency oozes at the skin pores
as sterile pollen, a midwinter bloom
frost-shattered?
This world of echoey spaces
and deep wells bottomed
with redstone halls of
inky shadows?
This stone-filled universe
with stars tearing at its edges
hungry for us? And rivers
of marshy grey from fetid pools?,
I wondered, since the starlight
burned pinpricks through the damp leaves,
jellied the jet pupil which boiled
the frogs in the forest swamps.
My blood drop burned the spring leaf.
Turning, I heard him
low, with a rush between trunks
splash the bog with his splayed toes.
He tore off the blindfold
but my eyes came with it.
Page(s) 150
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