Litany of forgotten stained glass angels of the East,
new windscreens of rushed oasis highways.
Love must be somewhere in the desert
this perpetual morning of summer, and its swimming pool eyes.
The light that is an ordinary god,
the light that is anarchic
Holds you here, blending the skylines,
perishing the oceans with adrift plastic sadness.
I thought you said we could be the mother of something
but our delight is neon and brittle.
Who will wash the ocean? who will guard the sun home?
The sunset is a blown lampshade to a land that waits on secret numbers.
The roads hold up a bridge
to another kind of haloed remembering.
Who will raise the crashed ships from the harbour?
Whose eyes can I fall into for sleep?
A maiden name for satellites,
white rays of passing cars and the gold that is their shadow
bodying sunset, strangering sunrise.
And we are the holders of sky artefacts
who romance and digitize seraphim.