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Thinking of Eurydice at Midnight

My Siamese cat’s left a brown

snake, its back broken, on my desk.

The underground throbs outside my window.

The black highway of the river’s crinkled by a light

westerly blowing down. I want to give praise

to the coming winter, but problems

of belief flare and buckle under

the lumpy syntax. The unelected

President’s on the radio again,

laying waste to the world.

Faith—that old lie. I drag up

impossible meanings and double divisions

of love and betrayal, light and dark.

Where on earth am I after all these years?

A possum eats crusts on the verandah,

standing up on its hind legs.

My weakness can’t be measured.

My head contains thousands of images—

slimy mackerel splashing about in the murk.

My failures slip through fingers pointed

at the best night of my life. This one.

The cold mist falls, my head floats in a stream

of thinking. Eurydice. Did I fumble? Maybe

I was meant to be the moon’s reflection

and sing darkness like the nightjar. Why

wouldn’t I infest this place, where the

sun shines on settlers and their heirs

and these heirlooms I weave

from their blond silk?

from The Goldfinches of BaghdadFind more by Robert Adamson at the library

Copyright © 2006 Robert Adamson
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Poems Robert Adamson

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