TROUT   [ 2 ]

  Heart sentences

1. Pump and impulse

My pulse and the empty room enlarged with absences.
Border tenancies where vagrants queue with ornaments.
Cunt figurine to cock bronze and all the filigree caught
in between. Far too much to unwrap alone.
If payment must be made then let it be the ritual of paper
birds unfurling. I throw them up with both arms.
Tonight the folded forest is on overload. Just one look at her
and mistakes fly in. The gap and our apartment.
The difference by pure description of the sky and the sex of
clouds. And on the pavement to the door of our apartment
Jimmy Crush and his public display.
In the corridor that lies beneath us an almanac of caresses.
By surprise the 5k shaft to her stockpile of sunlight.
My heart, more tendency than fact, grips hard.
Recurring regret from long orders. Or just give in and stow the
impulse to sit not quite close together,
but feeling happy silent.
Waiting in the kitchen ‘it’ eats looking over its shoulder.
I can feel the icebox from here.
So up the stairs broadshouldered. Sheets up and involved.
Bed counter pain to gulp the bucolic lozenges.
Till the sounds of her lungs like fog from her mouth.
Her eyes crossing traffic.
She’s got into Freud’s wardrobe again.
Making friends also with the bottomless pit.
The gap better left open to heal.
Sleep holding lyrical impulse.

2. her aim

How was she to know it was the last night the terrorists would
be overcommitted? In binoculars a home conglomerates.
In the building shell she had to smile to the angle necessary
When she had curtained the windows she started on the doors.
Their dishevelled past coming out to greet them and reform.
Just as by undressing on the stairwell they hurried on each
day. The patron saint of junkies,
the man with the flat cap and boiled eyes passed them by.
Before she left she touched each thing precisely, like making
shiatsu, like pressing harder to make wine from sour grapes.
She took only one momento, a photo of his face which she pasted
to her dashboard and made him her phantom taxi driver.
She’d saved all the best directions up till last.
Arguing loud like partytime, like Nero on electric guitar.
Until sleeping, until vomiting.
A good looking street out on a good looking planet or any
street to turn to.
They’d sorrowed one another out till he couldn’t speak for the
irony of having to explain.
Swell cookies on a slandered stomach.
The mirror of her hands looked back as if halfway through the
voyage she’d joined the crew without telling him.
She still saw him leaning on the rails, face full of seaspit,
his sight a flourish on a fainting horizon.
They’d dined at the Captain’s table more often than not.
So much and yet enough of each other.
So those of you who are aboard or not aboard make up your
minds. Or just show off at least.
Don’t gadget with mistakes or perfect your glamorous taboos.
Kick the habit.
Or tomorrow tumorous blindspots like cancer of the will.

—Simon Field
   © 1997