44
LANDSCAPE WITH FIGURES


The point of it just sludge
& a green lift over it. We stood
& waved.

                   It is all so fragile suddenly
with the hopelessness of what we are
creeping in again. It's a dull hum
never clearly heard like conversation (is it?
in the house across the road or the irritant tickle
of some insect that always vanishes on one's legs
& body. It is as hopeless
as this black filth & the coarse plants
swelling up through the feet that crush them.

That's love. That's the art
of art & culture. That's just
time to get on the bus & go off
to another town.

                                  Going back, bow
your head under the fallen tree
whose bole pushes into the salt mud
then sends up green vigour above
until sucked finally into the sea – that too
just an excuse. No dear, I don't know
I don't, only know the textures
of the things thrown around us.
They don't fit simply into words.