A dead starfish on a beach He has five branches Representing the five senses Representing the jokes we did not tell each other Call the earth flat Call other people human But let this creature lie Flat upon our senses Like a love Prefigured in the sea That died. And went to water All the oceans Of emotion. All the oceans of emotion are full of such ffish Why Is this dead one of such importance?
”My heart is very fragile, held together By a bit of tape and glue. It can’t handle being shattered again; Keep it safe and hold it close, So that it might heal.” Unable to deal with another blow, I gave you the opportunity to Revive or repress my happiness. Would you dropp my weakened heart All in due time? I couldn’t predict the outcome. You worked your way into it. The tape and glue fell away As you took their place in Piecing it together and repairing my wounds With your tender love that fills The once gaping, hollow spaces where Missing components were never regained And the cracks that were forged Through the most powerful of pressures. The last remedy that has a possibility Of succeeding is your time, your love, And your life. For now my heart is strong, With your essence infused within it, But if you were to attempt to Abandon it, when you provide its Only structure, the slivers that remain Would hardly be salvageable And forced to be scrapped. You’ve made a permanent mark On this once battered, worn, Torn and tattered heart, and It can no longer survive without you.
Who had children. Who died. Who found himself lucky after thirty years and stumbling home realised it was a simple error. Who ruled behind the scenes in the Department of Misinformation, who was later conscripted to underwrite Armageddon. Whose hand was lost in a sawmill and was met again as the strange dust of a new-found galaxy. Who migrated to the other world but came home to bury the dog. Who divorced and died of alcoholism in the country town where destiny misplaced him. Who topped high school, failed everything else twice, married money, then slept through the death of three children. Who was invisible, became a wall, became a street, entered real estate, bought a city, retired into owning world opinion. Who saw his son indicted for reluctance, shackled and maimed, blamed for the colour of the sky. Who inscribed his name in the old script, the one no one reads anymore, the one where things inscribe themselves so what they are reads itself back in us. Who was my shadow when daylight was.