Dress rehearsal
In new shoes
I walk
the leather clean
me lighter
a zephyr
and in new coat
starch
patterned
I speak as
a new man
from a sweeter
dimension
wearing summer on
his back
as Spring comes
into its own
autumn
reels itself
in
the blossoms
changing their costumes
are I
seeking redemption
through change.
Lens
Lens
show me
the people of this town
in robes
monks or nuns
show me
the yawning stone
archways
overhead
bowing to the
sky, the
great ceiling
show the
mimicking the idea
of transcendence
celestial ideas
warbling
from the throat
as they talk
of this and that
show them
show them as
their ancestors
were, show
them to me
as I sit
outside the bubble
searching
for an answer
to the chain
of questions
that never seems
to end.
Suspended
Nothing soars here
but flies under the radar, obscured.
Things grow below, sure:
little thickets and shoots,
prying the lid
and tide-basted shells from
faraway, with coal from the deep.
The skies are quelled
or quelling
and you can go for miles
without seeing a footprint,
not even your own.
It’s like a building erected
to preserve empty space
like our cavernous chests
the retreating sea
the uncertain sand
the incoherent echo
on the mewing breeze,
all is suspended.
*
James Mcloughlin was born and raised in Merseyside. His first book of poetry, Encore, was published in 2011 by Valley Press. Since then his work, both fictional and otherwise, has appeared in The Cadaverine, Sabotage Reviews, Liverpool Noise, Penny Shorts, United Press and others.
James is creative editor of New Critique and tweets @McloughlinJA.
All work is the rightful property of the author and is distributed with their permission.
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