Bomb Explosion (2)
by Michael Brett

Resurrection: the word clanks like the interior of a bomb
At the instant that it all snaps into place, as if
You are at the commencement and the ending of the world;
The cars, the houses, times are bent like light
Into a blacksmith's glistening horseshoe, red hot;

And his wife, a giant, sews up the edges of the air
With needles that touch and speed through everything:
Eyes, hair, windows, and then the earth. It called me

And I fell down through chambers multifarious as the heart,
And all was heart; blood running in the ears, the hiss
Of muscle connecting with ambulances, hospital nylon pipes,
Telephones; names being called out, the whoop of bells
And sirens, so many lights and sirens;

The Virgil ambulance crews in robes drifting among the dead
Dispensing soft words and flowers; the fires like rumours of plague pits,
Troy, tumbling through doors to be reborn;

I followed the white ribbons that led into the earth and knew
Everything was lost as trains on Croquet lawns
And the fabric of the Universe was torn, like a Durer drawing of a pilgrim
Pressing his head through the substance of things;

But there was no God, no new stars and only the falling down persisting
Like a drowning swim though sideways blackened waves
Seeping oil, car horns, bus tickets, documents, papers
In a kind of blizzard revolving like a ring on a conjuror's thumb;

It walks on water, ammonal, petrol.

Copyright © 2012 - Michael Brett
Published: 8/16/12   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem