Two of my favourite poems from Michael Daugherty’s collection Lines from No-Man’s-Land. Read the whole thing if you can get hold of a copy!
In one room of a damned metropolis
a lonely madman works on a plan.
In an all-night corner coffee bar
a statistic prays for one last fix.
Under frozen branches in black park
pale fingers fumble with elastic.
Twelve inches away from the late-night news
a myopic spinster weeps in colour.
Someone somewhere begins a letter
to anyone’s silent son or daughter.
WHEAT FIELD WITH CROWS
(for Vincent and the too many others)
A grass track
beneath a blue-black
sky; crows attack
the eye, defy
all the slick
laws of probability;
the breath of fate,
the mistral of truth:
clues to the paradox
of a waking dream,
of a scream.