(Photo- St Michele Cemetary Island, Venice, Italy - Copyright Darran Anderson 2006)

Other Poems From "Tesla's Ghost."

Holes.

There’s a place I kid you not
where the fat goes when you diet.
Another where memory flees to
when you stand up
and go into a room
and forget why you did so.
There is a place where Old Bolsheviks go
airbrushed out of existence
and photos of Central Committee meetings.
There are people right this moment
making frantic phonecalls,
there are people tearing clumps of hair off
running up and down High Streets,
there are people out in the desert
prodding the sand with poles
to find soft spots, burial clues.

There is a place where all the hours,
the consecrated ground
of our blessed weekends evaporate to.
Ambrose Bierce, Hart Crane, Mirko Seljan,
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,
los desaparecidos,
HMS Erebus, HMS Terror,
ships in the Dragons Triangle,
planes over Bermuda,
the crew of the Marie Celeste,
the memories of an Alzheimer’s patient,
the boy in the Indian rope trick
they exist still and are merely elsewhere.

There are holes
left in the finest tapestries
and each frayed thread that is pulled
drags another unwinding with it
til it all begins unraveling.

There is a place where your dreams end up.
And there is a place
where your soul will go
when your blood stops pumping
and your atoms seek to unknow you.

Forty years ago he left
then came back unannounced
without a postcard or phone call.
He knocked, sat down, sipped tea.
“So you’re back.”
“Aye.”

Copyright Darran Anderson 2006

Neighbour

Lost Highway

When The Clay Grows Tall