Memory Clouds
. . . the most benign symptom (Roland Barthes)
memory clouds, as the say, feed
on mountains, endless
hover that dwells, or dwelled
elsewhere, and yeah
behold a punctured
tyre, nightfeet across
swollen floorboards, each
perception divides itself into
earth and air.
In the theatre
of crashing streets there is:
a ladder of bird feathers
children
mock smoking
with broken
twigs
a face
painted
in coal dust