ENVIRONMENTAL Poem: Garden View, by Nick Crowley

There are little doors
where life slips through
everything which has been built
and neglected
and viscous, but still in motion
all the world is compost
what now? a little whiff of your own worm and steam. yuck.
in short, i am talking about an infinity of little rainbow balls
suspended in a void
endlessly spiralling into themselves.

Shrouded as it is in the fear of giving over
it is the tingling strings, a snake
that lies behind a film which covers it all
and no, Jan, I’m not talking about Autumn Sonata
imagine, instead, a dissociated young fawn,
writing philosophy dissertation on; ‘defacto sensory forbearance’
in a moment of heat and invisible weeds
they give it all away
i’m talking about something
more adjacent to the rainbow balls
don’t you see them too?
those little bubbles, leaving as they go
stopping up the spaces between spaces

You see just now I stopped living behind my eyes
just like that time last year
when I realised I split in two
at the age of six
and my magical lover found me all watchful
still waiting in plaid pyjamas
in the basement of my body

Connected, yes, now, at least, to something
which you felt was missing
but that grief, that anger, that heat
that has been waiting too
the cobwebs grow thick at home
grace always tends to make me feel a little nauseous

And shouldn’t I apply for job
here comes the shame
reverberating off the slammed door
aren’t I just, sort of, well, lost
and poking around in things
in a way which is somewhat
psychologically unhygienic?