Terry Brindley
The Reality of Things
The giraffe's neck
burning like a taper
is too possible now
for the safety of dreams,
watches
melting over the rump of time
not fanciful any more—
safe as houses
we said once
before the brass teeth of locks
grinned back
and spat
the sun white death of vaporising wind.
So the last
woman
won't be gnawed off
the Delvaux canvas
by striped ants,
so our faces
won't melt off our skulls
like wax masks
a dream now
or recovering the keys
that are strapped
on the general's tough chest.
Page(s) 254
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