peter jerrim

on Monday morning through the cracks
in the barn wall slopes of light
(they’re sheets of paper stacked on edge)
illuminate an antique cultivator

and lovers who squirm
on a canvas-backed rug
thrown over hay bales

the motes of the dust of which are
whales rising slow in their heaven
sounding great notes
and silences

within the channels
and pulsing vesicles of the humans
neurones sparkle play

provisional jazz
from which
subsonic grunts and fumbles
subsumed are historic events

for the bacteria
and macrophages darting in the veil of mucus
that lubricates their tangle

and the crystals of iron
in the tines of the cultivator
are snap frozen fluorescences
stelae inscribed with flowers

on a dark
temple
in Memphis

switched off in 1958
a Silent Knight refrigerator
with no door
tilts one degree

it’s stacked with paint tins
a radio on the top
bleats Slim Dusty (recently deceased)

and Little Pattie
(rereleased)
we could zoom in forever on
the details of this scene

and forget about the lovers
her and him and
who we think they are

just fifteen and
doing it quick
before the school bus
comes