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SAFETY
The bricklayers at dawn get a fire going
with the remains of plank mouldings.
Life has been a building under construction
with the wind at the top of the scaffolding,
and always facing into the void, because you know
that the man who’s installing a safety-net has no net.
What use is it to have gone on repeating
words like love?
Feeble light-bulbs at the end of a line,
memories come on. But I don’t want
anyone to feel sorry for me: I find
that easy kind of contempt repugnant.
I need pain against oblivion.
A bonfire lit from scraps of wood
burning beside some scaffolding, is who I am:
a tiny blaze
which, whatever it may mean to be judged,
no one can deny me ever again.
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