i.m. John Armstrong
The sound of horsehooves on the stair carpet
Rustling winds as a man climbs over an open gate
The identifiable mystery man
The stranger you know
Seated in his stained gilt glassware
Booming away awawy awaay aaaawwy awa ayyy wa
Declaiming in Chinese Greek he does not know,
The language of the stage
A samurai sword through parts of a suit
Legs and limbs lie loose and lost
Far below the watcher’s gaze,
The short-foot colour of impatient attention
Turns anemone-handed cartwheels
While synchronised disagreement pendulum ticks each nod
Towards its own synthesis,
Aufheben whether you will or not
Tremulous parakeet creaks
As a mustard gaudy stone head
Shakes its painted hermit-crab fringe,
Staring out
Over three women in trenches
Who dig monument tributes
Of green-sided lizard raven flowers
And canopies of wine
