Bruce McRae

 

            Fragile

 

The quiet, being taken apart

for easy handling and shipping,

the movers tip-toeing, their breaths

measured, working swiftly, yet

cautious. The quiet being sent

away, moved to another part of

town, in sound-proofed boxes, in

padded crates, in rubber cartons

marked 'Handle With Care'. You

can almost hear it, the way its

weight shifts, the dust being

disturbed, the absurd lengths

that the movers go to not to say

a word, their dark eyes rolling. 

 

 

 

                                  Flag

 

It's nights like this I ask myself,

what is a flag? A fluttering

symbol of a nation's amplified

psychosis. A blood-drenched rag

dipped at the passing catafalque.

A handkerchief to wave at the

soldiers marching off to war,

marching against human failure.

 

Run it up the pole and see who

salutes it. Use it for swaddling,

a bandage after an accident, to

mop the feverish brow of one

unwell. A thing to dry your hands

on after throwing in the towel.

 

 

                     Flyleaf

  

Everywhere the great poets are dying,

dropping like hints before a birthday,

like the mercury in a Siberian thermometer,

like concrete slabs from a highway overpass;

dropping like trousers at a military medical exam

or names among celebrities.

As if a bar of soap in a prison's showers.

Falling like a meth addict's IQ, or a castle wall.

Like the value of a pre-war mark.

Falling like Fat Boy over Hiroshima.

Like the scented gloves of courtesans.

Everywhere the great poets are falling,

as if a book from a hand to the bedroom floor,

its pages creased, the author sleeping.