FLOWER OF INDUSTRY Poem by Claire Potter

lamplight faded as inkless tattoo
burns inside the factory where you used to work─ we cut a cigarette
between us & watch violets out of vases tilt sideways in thin shade

above, one-eyed bird circles burning treetops─ leaves split open
in the heat & throw mouthfuls of thistle downward
a different bird, this time breasted in metal, pulls on a knot
of hot white bells & more fires
are lit
in the lucerne crop

. . . . .

above, your fingers (coppice of indifference
flick shrimp-tails into the pink yawns
of elastic old cats

I turn vases in the kiln & sweep dead blossom
with the shaving brush you found lying cold under the garage─
I get you a beer─ you ash in my teacup─ I drink from your ashtray

you give me a starfish

hand pulls shut the door, puts metal bird
back in the box & notices wings missing
missing in what I suppose you would have called a sky-blue disaster

there's a flag over the table where you lie, a burnt flag
flag nonetheless & dirty yellow petals adrift in my brain

above, silhouette breaks, contents wash in with veins of clay (I ask
you to hold me (as if slipping a paper weathervane