Abney Park
How many do you think there are?Eyes like a calming storm puddle
He dons his glasses for effect
Two hundred and fifty thousand.
They are so dense and dead, like those
Other underground commuters
So accidental, still tipping,
Uprooted and (yes) head lazy.
The brambles are ripe on death: a
Blood explosion on my fingers
We are stained and rubied at our
Outmost and most sensual. Then
I see a plush coffin full
Of bruised fruit, at rot and fester.
A spray of roots, a sigh and give
Of earth weight and a grave push through:
The nettles are dense and nourished.
And you said All of these people
Were once making the world. I want
To farm the sting, brew their life out
And clasp the chilled to warming mug,
To become aware of my hands.
July 2007