‘My blue angel of cement
she cracked there and then.
A body, two, rolled on a pain canvas.’
With me, three, in frozen meditation space.
I stood of silence, my mind
blending with the red
as all the birds took flight
I unglazed her melting through the pavement,
would have if I could have,
it might have saved her.
‘He, too, the crow, at the funeral
in a tux and white gloves
is now a dead man.
It is not even his Work of Art.
That Silver gelatin print (350 by 270
Millimetres) belongs to the artist estate
and to Harry Schunk,
who took the photograph.
I never got to tell her but all the same
She was my red fire heart gold. She is my
Fire in the heart of the void.’
Him? He would only paint the sky
And refused to paint himself.
Harry and I go to that tree
Sometimes and stare at a new gold vein
Trying to tell her tale.
Sweet worms massaging
Sun penetrated whispers
Of Laika still in orbit.