Chris Hutchinson

I’d rather reflect the sleep
of twenty castle-shaped clouds—

quiet as an unplanted garden,

a belief saddening
in the saddest of times,

clutching the wine cup without
letting a single telltale drop

insinuate itself like
a crystal of aluminium oxide

slipping down the peacock’s
effulgent throat.

In my worst moments alone:

eucalyptus diving in-
to the green lake of itself,

cricket at night cheeping beneath
the floorboards, or placing a foot

in the valley
in which I was discovered

so tears of blood
might brighten

the medieval statue’s cheekbones—
wondering,

what makes the experience
exquisite? Mineral-hard

proof or simply rocks in the beguiled
jeweller’s head—meaning

crushed like light through a chandelier.

Though I’d rather masquerade
as something easier to conceive of,

a designer brooch
amongst the high-stepping set,

sparkling wit of the vehement
intelligentsia—who these days

can afford not to invest in their
pageantry of feelings?

Or isolate as an alcove
where the wind shakes its fists

at the remnants of sleep, as I who
was murdered

awake
spitting seeds of red worth—