David Musgrave

Curtains

Today there is a surfeit of light
and the curtains in the flat opposite
spread out of the window like an apron.

Two drunks, still going from last night,
dance slow dactylics on the street,
trying to hail a cab. Gathering dust, Dawn

by Elie Wiesel, Meister Eckhardt,
When Darkness Falls (there’s too much light
for that) sit on my desk; acorns

of light are planted everywhere
and invisible oaks rise up, spreading boughs
of heat. Traffic gnarls

and is combed out by the street.
Today is Sunday, a goat,
the day after Satyrday,

leaping from rock to rock
of the imagination, like surfing the net,
or surfing the light on a wave of heat.

Later, the curtain is pulled inside,
folded back to one side, the rump
of a guitar case poking out,

clasp gleaming like a nut.