Become Poem by Garry Stanton

You lie on your back,
a bundling of bones, girdled in
goose,
and morphia’s
Nirvana.

Your head stands out
from eyes
dragonfly-sapphire, your
pelt gossamer-racked by the inquisitions of
aeons.
Your ears are
exposed to the spectral susurrations
of long- dead lovers,
who will whisper into your head for Ever.

They are the insinuations of Angels, perhaps, …

…or the aural manifestations of
imminent quietus, of
slithering siroccos where
cerebra slacken and where the livestock of
epochs
lies,
blenching beneath the implacable
O R B. You may be
aware of the
delineation of your (arguable) existence,
scorched upon the firmament,
by the ubiquitous amanuenses of
Creation…

…or, deep within honeycomb imaginings,
beneath Pangaea
or Eritrea,
or the boreal-bruised thrawn-ness
of your savage Highland
wellspring, where you,
finally,
are.



Garry Stanton
Copyright 2008





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