Entelechy

City of stags and spires, diurnally blissed with mist. We wake
to ornate, high-ceilinged rooms, bleed in with the damp
skull-shaken.

The sad racket of the morning tram (rattling
rail, vibrato
of building) is as much
as the day can really bear
of thuds, of God’s idiotic
rhythm.

Lo-Fi for the river, Clarendon
for the cars – who’s to blame
for what we try to avoid feeling?
The sun (today an ashen disc)
attempts gold
in a sky that’s forgetting.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s