Dreaming Futures Amongst Sounds of Matter
The sound all night, not quite made
of the moving air but the chatter
of material, doesn't take you back
east to other predawn patterns.
What is disturbing is the modern light
that phrases the wall through
the skewy slats. In that state
you have a tendency to wake
and dream at the same time,
to be in places not east, not west,
but rather unto themselves.
This is, possibly, the plan of the future.
What the third millennium consists of, no
directions that can be seen, air
that tastes of industrial desert, with gulls
still looking for the wide pacific
above the keening of the wires, and
infinity locked inside yourself.
All this before morning
and an acceptance of the ordinary street,
its recycling of Adelaide City's
garbage patterns, truck sweat and tangle.
Poems from 'Ash is Here, So are Stars'
Reviews of 'Ash is Here, So are Stars'
Other poems by Jill Jones