huck

HINTERLAND


when I'm reclusive, I'll sit at the centre
of my own remote pantheon
which is more ring of salt
than apotheosis

here the impassive coffee mug
of jaundice; there a barren trellis
'gainst the wall, slowly wheezing
in the company
of equidistant ashtrays
whose grooves tell quite a story

and all around there are
the tokens of nostalgia: cuttings
and the like, collecting dust
since their legends were lifted
to memory
while over by the porch
there's something dead
which I'd sooner name than evict

this fixed configuration will replace
the illusion of order so cherished in
the work I'll live to
repudiate: a bid to undress
for the last time
                             and oh, did I mention
the ivy?
you've never met ivy like this