poems by owen lucas

In deep violet silence, between pulsating walls
And the smell of the sunlight burning the tiles,
Synesthetes converse and spin deafening tapestries.
A brutal flash of luminous dust in this tranquil month
Ripples upon the stair, past the crippled face of
The grandfather clock, and the steady spreading
Waves of light, conceived within the broken mechanism.
Dust that fills minds plagued by angry numbers,
Unmet demands and threats, daubed in orange,
And the bitter taste of dry words, which crack
Like peppercorns between dull forgotten teeth.
These ghosts cry as they walk under arches, and cower
In the rose garden at visions thrown by owls' wings,
And listen to the dark concerto of the silent flowers.