Perspective

perspective

Heaviness and heat. There’s no way around
the tourists – caught in their resinous slipstream,
I slow to an otiose plod. Cigarette butt confetti
adorns the kerbside where we wait for the green man
while the smell of cremation, barbecue-glazed,
wafts up from Hurricanes (the ribs place
that provides its patrons with bibs). The sun
is a heat lamp, pressed to the roof of our terrarium.
Since October, the bridge across Darling Harbour
has been rigged with speakers so pedestrians can listen
to Frosty the Snowman on forty degree days.
Christmas is inevitable, inexorable, more so
than death – no amount of running on a treadmill
can prevent it; the date is set. The conveyor belt
of days and weeks has been getting faster,
but within the day’s oppressive slowness
is stillness – the sensation of time expanding
like hot glass softly expanding; a wobbling
blister of breath. Skyscrapers have replaced
cathedrals as structures of grandeur and might,
and the hush of ducted air conditioning
is a kind of breathing. My office window frames
peace; I keep the blind open to witness ugliness
receding. With time enough and distance,
suffering transmutes into wisdom. A plane
glides between buildings. All of us are loved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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