Poetry

Event Horizon

The curvatures of time and space

suggest no suffering.

“Event Horizon” has a lovely

metaphoric ring,

an afternoon’s free-fall, that’s all,

in towards the core

the densities of which may tell you

what your life was for.

There are, of course, some weeks of pain,

pausing at the rim:

those wayward storeys of cement

you did your parking in;

or, likewise, nosing home alone

inside your little car,

that strange ten seconds wiping out

the who-and-where you are.

At Coles, increasingly, your trolley’s

stalled between the aisles;

you miss the milk but not the youthful

condescending smiles.

The world’s become centripetal;

you’re entering the spin;

each day’s a sort of anaesthetic

needle going in.

The family is clustering;

they’ll circle here for years;

way on past the day when you

saw meaning in their tears.

  

0 comments
Post a comment