Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
the forsythia can take it,
the harsh and hard september sculpting,
the levelling to below the level of the fence.
late in the month a morning of sun,
and something in this heavy pruning
is reminiscent of a row of heads being lightened
by haircuts, relieved. what other creatures
think like this? not even all of us?
just some people with dry mouths
holding printed mirrors to themselves
amid the poetry shelves of local libraries,
the painter in his gloomy atelier?
or is it everybody and every thing
in their discrete worlds? is it these men
in their high vis vests pulling
the garden recycling bins to the kerb,
the woman walking circuits around this square
of streets, back and forth, again and again, to recover,
the portuguese laurel to be sculpted next,
the earwig rushing to the sanctuary
of the stone, the deep good night
laying out its maps, preparing itself,
gathering its strength in the gardener’s lung?