Dream-Confused Polar Bear In A University City (Second Draft)

This is what’s good about the rain.

Cars casting waves behind them
sell streets to me;
wheels drink in the wide showroom
with their
grooves, ribs and dimples.

Trees sit,
passing each river to the ground,
parting curtains,
into straight unbroken lines,
the shot glasses of a million great nights
measuring the
annual precipitation
above your shampooed and sodden hair.

Welcomed with that glassy, clean scent.

What’s good about the snow
is every shape made simple,
the cars blinded,
with hoods
of light ice,
heavy in landing together,
piled around a wide bend,
disappearing.

The weather
blocks sight,
to be with you,
and remember.

She found me,
it was time to,
but in a broken land of ice.

Each shape marks a bonus colour
triggering a memory and quickdraw smile
to the hearts which escape from instruments played
in an extreme weather
of happiness,
if you like.

And eyes can reach wider, and vine-like with curiosity;
eyes can be be insatiable, like climbing plants, but free.

In the room that spoke,
the polar bear
kept splashes of joyful paint
tufted in fur,
the emulsion for a canvas afterwards.

Waking up well is rare –
speak to an endangered bird.
It is good to wake up, in general,
with loud squawks trilling,
sun obscured by noise;

so feather a nest with
your own love,
and a Pandemonium
of family.

When it is the end
you will have to show
the stories that passed by the ear
of the smallest seashell that we sold,
the one too strange
for strangers,
the one that was priceless
at the discount of my
low-tide,
the actions that were spontaneous,

and all that remains,
is to say only something
of the truth that lived and went.

The sun rose over her house,
melting glass.

And this is what I learnt from her,
the ice-capped,
cold-toed
polar bear.

The polar bear is white
because she likes the snow,
because she likes to reflect
the aurora’s
many dreams.

But I saw her, lost,
like myself
and all out of the seas
we were asked to swim.

And I was happy floating
past the ocean
where a polar bear,
– where ice grew
at her feet –
walks the horizon,
looking for,
equally confused,
and diminished schools
of fish.

Because that’s what we’re given,
and that’s what we’re stuck with.

I want to be weird and in love
and go with you into the old city,
with our favoured strangeness
beset by the better spirits,
like candle flames
sheltered by cool stone,
our wise, satirical sense of
the truthful world and its lies,
leaving any anxieties and paranoias behind
spitting over their own skeletons
in attempts to cool,
arriving predictably in
the uncertain skins they shake in.

In boats
as we board others,
aflame and in the opposite direction,
vomit for old time’s sake,
under bridges
and pass through arches
of a fast food restaurant
in a historic city.

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