My Secret Life

My secret life is larger than
all the flowers cheering, the church pews
that seperate the whites from the coloureds,
from ripe majesty, blousy leaves
of nectarine an abandoned language reveals

or the shepherd who for so long was building
his hut between dimensions.

I can come out of it whenever I want.
Or summoned.
The boss likes disco, neckties
and other sorts of trivia
I dream of too often

thrashing my pillow boat, the staves
of which shudder with the weight
of petals- 'Old Man Pyjamas in
the young mans head' -as he puts it.

His riding crop is one of many; he buys one
ech time he saddles up Pontiff & vanishes
in gold-dust, pollen. He believes 'a man
shapes his own destiny.'
In autumn I attend the circus and eye-off all the slaves.