And None Of These Things Did Ever Happen


You can take a poet into a new idea but they may say nothing,

you can seat them in front of threnodies and burials and those

sunsets that switch on and off all of a life and you can remember

every word you never said and what they might have revealed,

particularly about what a silence is for and the way earth hides

wonders and when the stranger at your door reminded you of

what you always wanted to sing in the very last seconds.


But you did not do this, left it all to fall apart, never get its act

together, even in those dreams before they began or what you might

have regarded as a PS to your life, what somebody else might find,

these fiddle faddles of thought and crashes and unsaids as the

field fills slowly with ghost soldiers getting so near to home and

expecting everything to be so certain, the door not locked, the

windows filled with night and dawn and what music can remember.


© David Grubb 2018

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