ALL THIS FIELDWORK
(weird toys to a quiet spot)
I am battered and dry and made sorry too,
my eyes have stopped working. All I see
are these dreams of you : the field has
become a contentious nightmare, with
people spilling everywhere, and a dog
who's come alive. The nightmare spell,
the coffee smell, all those things are now
re-ignited. I look for a pad to write down
my vanguished notes. I have read my
'manchild in the promised land' sensation
should be passing, yet it here remains.
Walking through this Samptown Cemetery,
I see five hundred graves : the old black slaves
are dead, in their section, and the myriad Jewish
graves as well - just rolling and rolling over
these hills. The newer deaths - you can tell
by the ribbons and flowers, photos and toys -
they're acted upon as a childish celebration.
People leaving dolls, and bottles of beer and
toy cars. Just more things I do not understand.
By the caretakers shed, they've left on the ground
what must be two miles of green hose. Just lines of
green plastic, coiled and in disarray - all mixed. Like
all the graves around then, the hoses too seem fixed
and waiting, in a silence befitting nothing but
those people who keep bringing
weird toys to a quiet spot.