Out of the Blue Read Free Page B

questions
    and tells me everything I’ve ever done.
    For twenty pounds she’ll give me a golden future
    for ten pounds she’ll give me a silver future
    for a fiver a slam of bronze.
    I believe in the glow of the leaves
    in the shine of car-wax, in Wal-mart
    and in the whiteness of her false teeth.
    She would like to lie, but whatever possesses her
    won’t let her. Here it comes again
    clearing the coffee-smoke, thinning the cargo
    of carrier bags pushing past us,
    until the Saturday men and women
    lose their foothold in time.
    Now they are the dead walking
    at the pace of long-ago film.

Sleeveless
    There he stands, blind on slivovitz,
    eyes closed, face beatific,
    propped against the side of the coach
    while two girls rub him with snow.
    He goes sleeveless in the snow
    as if he belongs elsewhere
    in a land where blood alone
    is enough to warm him.
    But this isn’t spring. A hyacinth’s
    white whip of root in a jar in November
    won’t stop winter. The sun will go down,
    the wolves will sample the woods
    and snuff his footprints. But the engine’s running.
    Its vibration scrubs him awake
    and those girls are laughing.
    In ten long easy minutes
    he will have left the summit.

The point of not returning
    is to go back, but never quite back.
    Through all those trees I am unable
    to glimpse the house. Where the new road swings,
    the dark lane made for footsteps remains hidden.
    Where lilac-striped convolvulus
    wound its scent in the dust, new road signs
    describe the route in numeral and symbol.
    There is the hill, but not the right hill.
    There is a blood-red rhododendron
    by a breeze-block wall – but not the right wall,
    and those children in a sunburned straggle
    who face the oncoming traffic (thicker now),
    have bought the wrong sweets at the wrong prices.
    They have too much cash: they are not the right children.

The form
    Clearing the mirror to see your face
    I’m sure you are there.
    You came into the room behind me
    but when I looked you disappeared.
    Look. I am breathing out mist
    like a horse in winter.
    The glass I almost kissed
    has gone cold. Now, is it you here
    sitting in your usual chair
    under the light, with your Guinness poured
    and the best bit of the newspaper?
    Let’s have a tenner on Papillon, I’m sure
    he’ll do it this time . You show me the form.
    I put out my hand for the winnings
    and take the notes which are warm
    from your touch. But the mirror is cold, sparkling.

The sentence
    How hushed the sentence is this morning
    like snowfall: words change the landscape
    by hiding what they touch.
    ‘How is he –? Has he –?’
    Bridget takes off her glasses
    and rubs the red pulp of her eyelids.
    The world is a treasure-house of frost
    and sparkling roof-tops. A few doors down
    the sentence works itself out.
    A roller-blader slashes the street like an angel
    with heaven-red cheeks. A fag-end smokes
    in the gutter where a dog noses. Such elation!
    The labour of goodbyes
    goes on quietly behind windows.

With short, harsh breaths
    With short, harsh breaths
    and lips hitched to each syllable
    you read, but not aloud.
    You rise and go to the stairwell
    as if to call someone. Look up
    at the whitish skylight, the peace
    of another rain-pocked eleven o’clock.
    You are here and you want her
    but she’ll come no more.
    You keep her letters in a box
    and deal them out like patience
    to lie on your breakfast table
    stamps obsolete, envelope eagerly torn
    by the man who once lived in your skin.
    You read the postmark again.
    It’s September, four years after the war.
    Listen. She’s speaking.

The footfall
    It was you I heard, your tiger pad on the stairs,
    your animal eyes blazing. Now you have my face
    between your paws, tiger. It’s time
    for the first breath. Your playful embrace.
    Suddenly you take away my texture,
    the sheen I’ve had since I was born.
    My hair. You comb it out with your claws
    until the gloss and colour are gone.
    My skin puckers slowly. Your whiskers quiver
    as I keep