Cirque du Suburbia
The thing you think of is jangling the breast bone
you don’t splurge or heave but it threatens like morning
Someone’s been hiding the ducks and tangling the burbsong
almost in jest, chirpy-chirpy cheep-cheep, as nuts with guns
short cut down classy streets with beautiful mullets and nipples
The whole town is tempted onto the showboat, even I
was drooling about the new weather, the way RayBans
fit an image that’s deceased or a tiara if you need
an unhealthy respect for precious minerals, abandoned atmospheres
misreading the lux aeterna through a plain curtain
Nothing repeats like television or spaghetti, we’re told to
save it with our golden slumbers weighing more than you think
Verisimilitude seems like a good idea until
the autumn snow of tax deals starts hackling the yard
Each day is impossible
I fight with contours.
My horizon breathes its narrow fog
militaries hedgehop by day.
Dusty trees tremble
Silver-plated clouds and tiny craters
slip stones into my mouth.
Here I wait for breaks at sea
cracks in holes made by language.
I’m a stone at the base
where each word will be stolen.
I head for a pale yellow distance
or die into my life.
Jill Jones has published six full-length poetry collections, most recently Dark Bright Doors in 2010. She recently published Senses Working Out, a Vagabond Press Rare Object chapbook. A new full-length book, Ash Is Here, So Are Stars, will be published in 2012. She won the 2003 Kenneth Slessor Poetry Prize for Screens Jets Heaven and the 1993 Mary Gilmore Award for The Mask and the Jagged Star.