49 KURTZ ON A BENCH STEPHEN GRANT For Kevin Hughes The nuns carry themselves. Into the park their mythological needs make sacrosanct the music of fiddles and disease, become fat, hollowed out like the breeze through cornucopia. ‘Christopher Columbus slept here.’ God I was young then, holding my lung out to the rain. It is well to want more than enough and burn villages in your own name, whisky-damned on the coffin to eat flesh, render the worst you know at those Caesar makers. Look there, there. It’s not good to know the cripple in the garden can’t get you. He came with his iron horse and the game which made pursuit arid and foggy and destitute. I lived centuries inside his flame, but tick tocking deserts me, breezes grow heads and tails. I slide down ladders but no grave, no twenty pound wreath. Do I die poor then? I say forg,etmy summer, my spring, these gravy coloured dahlia, that blue lagoony petal of a goodbye and feed the ducks. Remember me. Winter and the result count only, only ape me.

KURTZ ON A BENCH

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KURTZ ON A BENCH STEPHEN GRANT

For Kevin Hughes

The nuns carry themselves. Into the park their mythological needs make sacrosanct the music of fiddles and disease, become fat, hollowed out like the breeze through cornucopia.

‘Christopher Columbus slept here.’ God I was young then, holding my lung out to the rain. It is well to want more than enough and burn villages in your own name, whisky-damned on the coffin to eat flesh, render the worst you know at those Caesar makers. Look there, there.

It’s not good to know the cripple in the garden can’t get you. He came with his iron horse and the game which made pursuit arid and foggy and destitute.

I lived centuries inside his flame, but tick tocking deserts me, breezes grow heads and tails. I slide down ladders but no grave, no twenty pound wreath. Do I die poor then? I say forg,et my summer, my spring, these gravy coloured dahlia, that blue lagoony petal of a goodbye and feed the ducks. Remember me. Winter and the result count only, only ape me.