Swans in Libra

A loud V-wing of swans omenises
The park road with a promise of life’s victory
That slides like a question mark
Down dusk’s typed page.
                                                Hanging in the balance,
Faint Libra’s meaning: is a star
 
Forced blind out of dark matter
Or is there a plan? And if there is a plan,
Who wrote it? Who distributed the scripts
In a pale rehearsal room
And directed, with whose permission?
 
 
The amber hydrangea of street-lights
Works hard to compete with The Scales
But tonight’s script is kitchen-sink,
The stage a figure of eight:
Buildings standing like chess-pieces at checkmate.
 
The board has its tail in its mouth.
 
 
He walks. Is life a white bird?
He has gambled every step against the thought that
Nobody cared about this life no director prepared.
Though there is at least negativity in that-
Not just nothing. The swan is ice-white.
 
 
But the script weighs heavy in the hands, and no profit-
For a fortune is not welcome in the play ‘Deadlands’
Though there may yet be profit in there being nothing
For that would be better than there being a plan
To cast him as a leading man in ‘Nothing.’
 
The script has its head in its mouth.
 
 
The swans’ song is a mystery that could prove
A brutal fantasy. Yet this romance was deftly forged:
The blue lights of Libra seem a masterpiece of engineered form.
But by whom can we say that these were forced?
Not a god, please or we could not obey the script’s call.
 
The night shuts the omenic window
On a man with his mind pressed to hell,
 
While sweet Libra hangs in the balance,
Like a cygnet still trapped in its shell
That belongs to the call of the South.
 
The Swan has its heart in its mouth.