the astral silence
Not the motion but
Triangle she makes
with herself in his body
inhered in him
not to speak:
to know words
as guests of silence
and of scheme
Stammer into bodies
why this role? The drowned
the Suicide, claimed from silence
what did the river pay for you?
Was it done in glass? Too often
you capture yourself en passant,
You seem so much better
have you been doing?
you fixed now
A low, musical howling
Pink rose china teacup
A map of old Port Brass
Mayhem, hunger, guilt
I do not understand you any more
At sleep a small comet stray
snaps the day into butterfly wings
electric as the silence of revelation
And, at the heart of every moment,
this tender, careful, impervious love
Another breath year comes
Harold Ramis 1944–2014
A beloved childhood memory, and fragments of it, thankfully, are impervious to time: Ghostbusters at The Schonell Theatre, second run, maybe 1985 by then? The soundtrack was the first cassette I bought myself. Dancing around to The BusBoys’ Cleanin’ Up The Town. Lines from the movie still float through my mind.
Somebody blows their nose and you want to keep it?
Thank you, Mr Ramis.