(fallen
cherry-blossom, the gutters
are steep screes of it)
Michael Hofmann
UP IN THE AIR
The sky was breaking, and I felt little less numb
than the alcoholic devotedly spooning
pate from a tub; than the divorcee's station wagon
with its dog-haired sheepskin dogseat;
or the birds barking in the trees to greet the day. .
There was a grey heron standing on a green bank.
'Soul survivors' spilled out of the
Titanic
in their once-fluorescent sailing whites .
You only live once. The record sang "My Girl,"
but that was a lie . She only shucked my cigarette packet,
as she danced before my eyes like the alphabet ,
mostly like the letter A. . .. I was Ajax,
I had stolen another man's captive, slaughtered sheep
like a maniac, counted my friends till
I fell asleep, now I would have to swim for it
in the greasy, yellow, woollen waves . . ..
The bass drum went like a heart, there was a pillow
curled in the bottom of it for anchorage.
Our finger-joints shook in the free air ,
sheep's knuckle-bones dicing for the seamless garment.
Three hours flat out on the hotel candlewick,
blunting my creases, then off to the airport
with its complement of tiny, specialised, ministering
vehicles. I sat over the wing, rivetted , wary,
remembering ring fingers and flying kites .
