Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch;
if only the body could catch up with the blood.
I'm always chasing this heart's last rapid tick,
drawing near an invisible finish line
over which I can step and stop the clocks,
have a drink and settle down to make some kin.
Nice town and I've never seen it, nice faces
but I can't think of how the names relate.
We win this race of confrontations,
invent promising strategies, learn to tell
better stories: wings lift shoes, a boat rows
in the clouds, the quarrel meets the apple.
Know what I forgot in the rush to here? Blood
isn't just inside me, it is me, my brother.
The child's conception like a struck match,
an axe ringing off knots in trunk wood,
cloudy brains forming in the sky. The twin
of today is yesterday, or will
be tomorrow, yet each continues/follows,
different from the last/next. Like obstinate
math problems we line up, waiting, in effect,
for a dark age to pass; to be made public, fixed.
I've met my match in my son, the mirror
image of his face constantly separating
from mine: I walk beside a wall of glass,
come to the corner, he goes the other way.
There are so few barriers to proper sense,
but sense is among them, if you get my drift.
How many feet was it in front of my home
that I fell in the ditch that opening night
fifteen years back, drunk and rank of some town
girl's perfume? The bank and weeds' tall theatre
drew a blackout curtain over my prone
form and swayed, a shushed and respectful crowd
viewing a well-known/well-appointed corpse
laid out in the roadside's funeral home.
From a civil bed to the misty primal;
spin me, stars, until I am erect.
Take me by the neck like a mother would, that first
clutch at the nape, lift me to your breast.
Dumb, the cars' searchlights passed my dim cradle.
Dumber still, I lay agape and slept.
(Three poems from The Rush to Here, Nightwood, 2007)
Read IN's interview with George Murray.