Peter Boyle Poems
Who had children. Who died.
Who found himself lucky after thirty years
and stumbling home realised
it was a simple error.
Who ruled behind the scenes in the Department of Misinformation,
who was later conscripted
to underwrite Armageddon.
Whose hand was lost in a sawmill
and was met again as the strange dust
of a new-found galaxy.
Who migrated to the other world
but came home to bury the dog.
Who divorced and died of alcoholism
in the country town where destiny misplaced him.
Who topped high school, failed everything else
twice, married money, ...
You in the high-walled fortress of sleep
I on an island of wakefulness
bird-haunted, trapped by mist
You eyeing the warm milk of suspicion
I drinking the green rain of the seagull’s ocean
You on the red deck of the last ferry going under
I on the amusement pier lost in the crowd