Gedicht
Claire Potter
Flower of Industry
Flower of Industry
Flower of Industry
lamplight faded as inkless tattooburns 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
© 2008, Claire Potter
From: Heat Magazine Number 16
Publisher: Giramondo Publishing, Sydney
From: Heat Magazine Number 16
Publisher: Giramondo Publishing, Sydney
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Flower of Industry
lamplight faded as inkless tattooburns 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
From: Heat Magazine Number 16
Flower of Industry
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