The Seductive Loveliness of Perspective
On any screen my attention drifts
whether it's girls online or the official denials
a reporter hunched in a bunker or
reading the accounts—I'm looking
elsewhere: stars and flags draped down empty skies
the blasted building windowed embers
the 8x10s of Sardinia, how book spines make haiku
"the drowned cities embrace fierce December".
Here’s his desert cave, now a sandstone proscenium
he’s upright in that bent-backed chair and bleak
as a Hopper shopgirl, recalling the years of exile,
the poverty and ruin of the world.
And all this bricolage: a teeny stair, a wall unit,
the inlaid floor, vaultage and colonnades
everywhere ellipse and line. Even the crucifix up there
Christ’s arm pulled back 'til the sockets crack.
Now she shifts her shirt, says I’m here now
same table lamp, same decor, a glimpse of rushing leaves.
Beyond an olive grove where two highways meet--
one to the desert, one to the coast
and at the crossroads a boy singing his new-bought voice
the birds circling round, charmed right out of the sky.
Peter Frankis is an Australian writer, living in the industrial town of Port Kembla south of Sydney. Recent poems have appeared Wild (Ginninderra Press) Geelong Writers Centre Anthology 2020 (forthcoming) and online in Plumwood Mountain Journal, Vox Poetica and Vita Brevis.
The Ekphrastic Review
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