Cursive

Near London, in a fog blotted with dilution:
A mechanical scientist sits on the bench Red.
The bench is moving somewhere among three
fingers half-shining in black sleeves: victory
with a strike of juice from cafe Classica.

A fly in orange light
meticulously pins
brilliance,
leaving chalk and the raging
downwards flag.


This: night of eye
means eyelet of night;
over the small cracking walk
ink passes exquisite lace of thorns
olively through the shape of Ground, and grows.
Iron brides kick themselves;
out of bones, they stretch.

Lady Dedlock stands blotted with
lavender.

Under her umbrella rises the night.
The whiskers of Blackeye
Susans
grow barbs from deep wells,
silent stains under her feet, and
reach like stagemen with knotted
strings of lightbulbs.

There strikes this wall as a bold
imprintment of everything cursive
in science's X crossed with a pen of rock and
roll. Airplanes terminate
time.

She doesn't know she has leaped until she
leaps by a choking and catches
in a noose the strained trees growing
fearfully high inside her skin.
And every delay of plastered hair
is gunshot against that rock, ticking
through the dragging young heels of alarms
which stutter as abrasive airplanes, falling,
wait to drop the angry sky and saw back into
place, echoing.

Between arms and hands,
comes the only one who's seen lightning. And she
says, Just trying is always best; don't tremble
when you walk in the Cafe.

Palms unworthy and highschooled
suddenly exist as having found the
surprise: the wall has a top beneath the sky.
This is the surprise of hound dogs ceasing
at the sharpest noses.

It burns.
As hot as summer night, the trembling
scrape of the Cafe
cements into her hand tiniest bumps,
a paperstone grid
of a second's sharp encounter.

She can feel her eyes weaving pencils,
hopeless now that the ground is
smooth again.

Who would believe it in the power
of arms, arms of unmarionettes which
swallow microphones in false-bottomed plastic
jaws, arms of blind beauty,
arms past the grave even -
but time stays behind and the people are crossing. And their voices
are unbearable.

Lady Dedlock laughs
for a muted tinkling
to curl legs of nymphs inside the treble clef.
Her more impossible self is
singing on the streets and envisioning;
smallest tufts of hair beneath
her eyes spout sticks and rushes.
Upon these,
lilacs begin to bend.

Let us say, then,
that all we shall find
will be what's caught up inside her mirror and hair brush -
and we will look no further.