Flower of Industry

Flower of Industry

Flower of Industry

                    lamplight faded as inkless tattoo
          burns inside the factory where you used to work─ we cut a cigarette
between us & watch violets out of vases tilt sideways in thin shade

                    above, one-eyed bird circles burning treetops─ leaves split open
in the heat & throw mouthfuls of thistle downward
                    a different bird, this time breasted in metal, pulls on a knot
of hot white bells & more fires
           are lit
                    in the lucerne crop

                    . . . . .

                   above,     your fingers       (coppice of indifference
flick shrimp-tails into the pink yawns
of elastic old cats

I turn vases in the kiln & sweep dead blossom
with the shaving brush you found lying cold under the garage─
I get you a beer─    you ash in my teacup─     I drink from your ashtray

you give me a starfish

hand pulls shut the door, puts metal bird
back in the box & notices wings missing
          missing in what I suppose you would have called a sky-blue disaster

there’s a flag over the table where you lie, a burnt flag
         flag nonetheless & dirty yellow petals adrift in my brain

above, silhouette breaks, contents wash in with veins of clay     (I ask
you to       hold me      (as if slipping       a paper weathervane