He heave end.
time spent waiting.
When is when?
Inequality is salad
for the staff
of life, or
We shares in the market
fall into habits
of deferred grace.
Almost a vegetable?
Pause after pause.
Do many names
The word is para paradise,
Helping out hope
with small improvements
lightly sprayed oil
and mouth joy.
We have to climb up to the ruined monastery,
it’s on the same track as our rented house.
You can feel the allegory in the tractor road
turning to narrow path, gulley, slick rock,
the dumb place doesn’t care, out of sight
your heel might turn, mist fall, anything.
LCD landscape disappears in sunlight,
we grip straw, gravel, branches, then walls.
We believe with cameras. The eighth century
was no specific time to itself. Crypt,
nave, apse, dortoir, all heavily restored.
First oaks died then the vines, the peons
left empty terraces to dust. Back at the house
orange stars mark switches in the dark.
[Peter Middleton is the author of Aftermath (Salt, 2003), is director of the Centre for Cultural Poetics and is helping to build the British Electronic Poetry Centre. He is Professor of English at the University of Southampton.]
Copyright © 2009 by Peter Middleton, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.