I swear my printer says ‘rhubarb, rhubarb’
as it swings its head and spits politely on the page,
writes my words with rainbows.
It’s why I know you across a crowded bar
and have said hello to strangers by mistake
to colour with apologies in red.
It’s why there are trees on my winter glass
and Virgin Marys sanctify burnt toast
for the blessed mistaken in brown.
And clouds are far countries where peace
reigns despite the castles melting into hills,
or that chimeras rear their fleeced heads.
The rain drips random from roof to sill
lulls my sleep, while a strict tap tortures me
in Chinese: tacked and tock-sick to the second.
And clocks with pendulums synchronise
when left in a room alone, like nuns whose
months listen to each other, ignore the moon.
It’s why molecules love each other or repel
in blind recognition of affinity for how
everything falls together, or falls apart.
Make patterns and everything fits. Life
tessellates, minds made whole; vacuums
are shapeless; we hate them to death.
So we invent patterns as comforts, patchwork
hexagons mimicking bees to leave no space
and fill them with sweet nothings.
Comb our recognitions and reassurances,
find the illusions and pretence. Fillers for those
things we need to learn and now shall not.
Computers work so hard at what we do
without thinking; pattern recognition makes
automation easy as the mistaken friend.
Then Mary says ‘rhubarb’ across a crowded bar,
writing trees on the window and tapping your name.
Your pendulum swings to hers and you’re safe.
2011 © Andie Davidson