by Mick Hugh
Are there pastorals in a pixel?
I’ve heard it said so.
That a perfect moment holds life’s memories…
yet the playback waits for death.
No better than the world
in a meek man’s hands:
show me the roses growing naturally in the graveyard,
or a romance with a wick for the years.
We can get high enough
if we run the old Buick
with the garage door shut.
We can get high
walking the Lincoln Tunnel,
or gasping for breath
from a Newark overpass.
A thousand office faces
find their dreams in computer screens,
still glowing when the day shuts its lights.
Wither the aortic valve,
just from a lack of use.
myopic Coke-bottle glasses.
The smoke-stacks in a Cezanne.
in the gold mines of a wedding ring –
are we done yet?
Febrile seizures on a death-bed
awaken his famous past:
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