Welcome to war's King Midas, its reverse alchemy
by Michael Brett

It is through death and its sepulchres that we meet
Our other selves, the ones who stare back at us
From looking glasses; the ones walking towards us
From the future carrying dates and times. These
Too are shadows who meet and fuse with us
Like golden wires touching in tube trains and aircraft.

Soldiers and policemen know them.
Suicide Midas pays overtime when he turns
A street to gold with a flash of hair dye;
Pieces of eight.

The division into Before and After is sharper
Than any dawn or doorway. It is
A phial of wrath smashed upon the pavement,
Changing everything:

The strongest houses are nutshells, roads
Strips of paper and our limbs
Discarded components in a junkyard world;

While the ignored air is now strangely new,
Is strong and vbrates like an unseen instrument
Singing of bells, ambulances, soldiers,
Unknown futures paused beneath the hands
Of computer operators,
Sketch artists.

Copyright © 2012 - Michael Brett
Published: 2/16/12   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem