[James Midgley]

Version 3 (newest):

Hallucinations of the Knife

A knife
in its way exact and unremarkable
and perfectly within-bounds
as one holly leaf
leapt from the hand one evening
out the kitchen window that quickened
a moment inside its mirror --

................twilight of thickets
................feline touch of nettle
................and murmurs of rosemary
................through these a trapdoor shaft
................through these a studious fish
................emerald brocade on one side
................horizon smelted on one side
................taut with night bird
................or pent water
................stalactite galactic
................heading back to its cavern
................tavern hall of flickering chatter
................sap of silverbirch
................scrambling among lichen
................downriver and over into ivies
................ivies of flame

and shrugged into soil
and either went on burrowing or the churning
magnet at the world's core called it

snickering through roots,
mole-forgotten vaults,
a washing-line lying in slack segments

until rust bloomed
on its seeing surface
and sheathed it into a breathed scabbard --

................dust of pollen
................dried riverbed of birdcall
................leaves with their hands lying up-curled

and then breath was song such as both
skirts of water off a bird-bothered fountain
and frisson of the edge urging down

so when it met the stone and stuttered,
stone and remembered moonlight were one and neither

in their shredding.
It lost its grip then.

Was the hand to blame -- the hand that loosed
and lost, or the hand that crafted?

I must only change direction,
the knife didn't think,
focus just a little harder, couldn't.





Version 2:

Hallucinations of the Knife

It leapt from the hand one evening over spuds
out the window into moonlight that quickened
its mirror of movement a moment --

................twilight a tendon thicket
................distant churchbells
................feline touch of nettle
................murmurs of rosemary
................through these one pleat of a skirt
................through these a trapdoor shaft
................through these a studious fish
................emerald brocade on one side
................horizon smelted on one side
................taut with night bird
................or pent water
................reservoir of reeds briefly
................stalactite galactic
................heading back to its cavern
................tavern hall of flickering chatter
................sap of silverbirch subliming
................carbon scrambling into lichen
................gust of piston steam
................downriver and over into ivies
................ivies of flame
................quenched metal sinking

-- and hunched its shoulders among shrubs
and went on sinking into soil, so it was unclear

whether the knife burrowed or the churning
magnet at the world's core called it,

whether the blade found all already severed
or only what it made in falling --

unmoled vaults and pulverised flowerheads,
a clothesline broken among blind worms

and the scalps flayed from nightshades --
as the knife snickered through aeons,

rust bloomed on its seeing surface, all that was
frictive and accounted for

until oxidation shut it
into a scabbard of breath

from some upper spring where song
could not be told from song

-- skirts of water off a bird-disturbed fountain --
-- frisson of the edge inching down --

so when it met the stone and stuttered
it failed to know either stone

or remembered moonlight shredding in its eye.
It lost its grip then.

Was the hand to blame -- the hand
that loosed or lost? The hand that crafted?

I must only change direction, it didn't think,
focus just a little harder, couldn't.







Version 1:

Hallucinations of the Knife

It leapt from the hand one evening over spuds
done with the work of revelation

out the window into moonlight that quickened
its mirror of movement a moment --

................the twilight a tendon thicket
................of roots of distant churchbells
................feline touch of nettle
................of rosemary murmuring
................through these one pleat of a skirt
................through these a trapdoor shaft
................through these a studious fish
................emerald brocade on one side
................horizon smelted on one side
................taut with night bird
................or pent water
................reservoir of reeds briefly
................stalactite galactic
................heading back to its cavern
................tavern hall of flickering chatter
................sap of silverbirch subliming
................lichenous scramble into carbon
................gust of piston steam
................downriver and over into ivies
................ivies of flame
................swaths of fire extinguisher
................hiss of smithed metal into bucket
................down down down

-- before it hunched its shoulders among shrubs
and went on sinking into soil so it was unclear

whether it strained down into a tunnel it made
or the churning magnet of the world called it
through wastages of rearrangement -- were they

dead where the blade pierced the heart
it found out, made? Were they dead before?
The moled vaults and pulverised flowerheads,

a clothesline broken among blind worms
and the skins flayed from so many nightshade scalps --
as the knife snickered through aeons it saw

rusting over its seeing surface, all that was
beautiful frictive and accounted
for on its trajectory so

when oxidation closed its eye at last for good
it was into a scabbard of the treacled

breathing of an upper spring
and there was singing impossible to tell apart

-- skirts of water off a bird-disturbed fountain --
-- frisson of the edge inching down --

so when it met the stone and stuttered
it failed to know either stone

or shredding of remembered moonlight in its eye.
I must only change direction, it didn't think,
focus just a little harder, couldn't.