Andrew Payton

DEATH-IN-PROGRESS

they teach you that poems
about dying or dead grandparents
are the vain effort of puerile poets –

if poems map the heart,
what you feel, kid,
is Google Earth New York (or 16th century London).

but that cruel insect’s bite
is the poison of mortality,
the inequitable, unquitable plague;

the film layering her eyeballs,
his rodent-skull penis,
the crusted saliva of their dead language.

the mouse is born in the talons of the hawk,
the dandelions spill into the parking lot,
kinetic equilibrium is a soul swap

of indifference.
You notice your cheekbones
are not your own at all,

when she gazes at you
through a fog you cannot see,
she calls you by your father’s name

and you notice the DVD
is skipping scenes, and you think you’ve
been here before,

but not you –
your eyes are the same blue
and your hand presses hers

with those grey veins running back and forth in time.