The Folded Napkin [poem]

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There’s a man in the moon
who lives in my mirror like
a folded napkin in a drawer
(or tightly rolled up in a ring
of hallmarked tarnished silver)
and I’ve seen him there at least
ten thousand times before —
his mouth like a startled lunar
landscape cratered in the shape
of a breath-holding diver
breaking open every gately
when all heaven breaks loose
with pealing bells across the night
(that darkness then is soundly
put to flight) and ocean-going
steamers blow their horns
and roses lose their thorns
and cyclones have no storms
and nothing living mourns
(for nothing any longer lives
in forms which we know now)
while greyness is adorned
with multi-coloured madness
and we bump into a rabbit
with no watch who slouches
along and in silence we dine
as he sings to himself and
the longingful song on his
silvery lips bears a startling
resemblance to mine.


© Alan Morrison, 2014

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