Pete Spence

Falling. For Tom Weigel.

something is coming towards you
it may be solid
or a forgotten idea of your past
even if its narrative had dropped off some time ago
shattering on a pavement happening nearby
a loose end of a civilisation
that seems bent on escaping us
protruding like the skin of a dream
into every thought
untouchable and fragrant
the weighted flavour of air
fermentations bubble towards you
the final hard sell
then suddenly the ground elopes with you


somewhere nearby someone has a radio on
playing the latest static the buzz
of an insect closing in is a little more tuneful
and the sky is agreeable flaunting
the pandemonium between a few eager clouds

some fresh sounds lean precariously in the distance
planning their entrance carefully
trees weave in and out of the view amused
by the pattern of imported shadows
taking up vacancies in the scattered foreground

is the air cleaner for the scraping sounds
of the radio? i think not but can anyone be sure
or be certain of the the muffled sounds of the day
as they stumble about at a tepid tempo
knocking over the gathering eventualities

here one minute going the next
leaving the strings of residue to their fate
a little like yesterday's dishwater but without
the bubbles hung out to dry as the radio taunts
eagerly from between the desiccated clouds

Particle Collusion.

to see the slipway fall past comes
as the last surprise of the day the mountain
of furniture drifts away no questions asked
the questions had suddenly emptied
as the air swelled to fill the space leaving
the jovial witnesses's stunned as if a full moon
had stumbled up to them asking for directions
a few yelps strangle the docile panic a quick
cadence and the ocean suffers a fiery death
canoes take to it like charcoal with a grain of salt
dunes in a mystified huddle consider darkness
sharp as a blade the pavilion wakes to the sound
of music someone is playing Sympathy for
the Tympani on chop sticks a retired typing
pool joins in lit by a scoria sunrise seems
there will be no rain today to wash all this
away nothing is that easily written off!

Reflected Exits.

i suppose it has all been about collecting benchmarks
though excess it seems is lacking as an outline it needs
colouring in but what colour would be surgically enough
or enough to survive winter if it ever comes again
not just a surface to admire from a distant shore
that seems to be moving towards the equator against
the tide's better judgement napping in some hired shade
the plankton is at rest it must be midday or the year
of the plight even the furniture is musty the air so still
you could clean it with a rag until the view grows sharper
the stitching highlighted against an erasable backdrop
destinations arrive and leave some stay a while admiring
the view reflected in a mirror that ropes in everything
that moves no space is left unfilled but can we trust
that exit sign hanging at a slight angle in the shadows?

Pete Spence was born in 1946. He is a poet, visual poet, editor, and filmmaker, and has worked in various jobs to cover the ongoing deficit.

He is currently retired from work but not from any of the above.
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