Category Archives: Day 16

atavus

i swim
under curtains of bronze seed
shaken out by birch

fingers gloved with air beads

immersed in chiaroscuro
of sun and dark water

in the bottomless lake

my bones lengthen
into baleen shapes

there are shapes in the water

atavistic voices
wriggle into my skin
i sink
pulled by katabatic
currents

into nascence

Almost Extinct

Trotsky is living in my garden shed,
a long trip from Mexico to Altrincham,
a refuge from ice picks, machine guns,
the persecution of Stalinists.

Trotsky is pleased that Stalin is dead.
The Miraculous Georgian was a pygmy, he says,
the murderer of Bolshevism and World Revolution.
Putin’s learnt a lot from him, he says.

Trotsky is living in my garden shed,
a prophet whose time has not yet come.
He harangues the snails and worker slugs
and tell them to prepare, prepare, prepare.

Trotsky is pleased that I talk to him;
we’re a politburo of two on plastic chairs,
discussing enemies that still exist
in our hearts and heads and somewhere.

Trotsky is living in my garden shed,
the last of the prophets, too old to breed.
He won’t yet reveal that he’s alive.
I lock the door, hold on to the key.