I see you know
the world’s way, all that
slop and carrion
of having, but not
being;
ludic and cavalier, you’re almost
viable
in someone else’s hell,
answering dog
with shark, aristocrat
with nunc dimittis.
So rest assured,
you’re welcome in this place,
there’s no one, here, would
Ides of March
your party;
but listen:
can you hear it in the floor
the ring that rings
against the ring
of footsteps
when you stumble out of luck?
no need to tell the truth:
just don’t pretend
you walked into a fate
you knew would happen;
there’s falcon still
to come, the noontide
swing of it, before the claws
dig in
– and later, when it dives
to drain the heart
and daybreak finds you
with a run of blood,
like grease, between the collar
and the chin,
step out into the sun
for all to see:
your friends, your dead,
your team of publicans
who kept you sweet
so they could gut you now.
John Burnside’s most recent poetry collection is Still Life with Feeding Snake (Jonathan Cape
Content from our partners
Related
This article appears in the 05 Apr 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Spring Double Issue