Photograph courtesy of ESA/NASA
WORDS BY SIMON ARMITAGE
hooked up
to the morphine gun
all you did for a week
was breathe and sleep |
then the breathing stopped |
they reckon the angels demand their share
of the sherry butt, but
what do angels care
for see-through, watery
spiritless air? |
wouldn’t they sooner trawl or dowse
for the booze itself,
for soulful liquids cradled in oak and drowsing for years
under blankets of mould,
bloodgroups chalked on the barrel ends,
the transfusions at work? |
in the hushed bodega it’s never more
than a purple dusk;
on its ward-round
a dragonfly sips
from a weeping cask
This article appears in Atmos Volume 03: Flourish/Collapse.
Hooked Up To The Morphine Gun