Its Thoughts
The first time it happened, the bright air went, and you walked
in a space without fixity.
Crowds were howling protests somewhere near you.
There were ruleless objects, bones
or severed manes from unknown animals.
The voice you heard knew that its thoughts were not your thoughts.
There was a city under your feet, then there was a mountain path.
You can't forget the fine taste of that bleak air.
It hasn't yet happened again, but you know that it intends to.
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In Passing
A phrase of music glows through an open window,
abandoning itself. A boat full of tourists
swells beneath a dark arch, shining within it.
Faces pass on a bridge, and the surfaces of shop
fronts or on the sides of office blocks reflect
sweepingly on all the events. Trees stand and think,
reserved but with nowhere to go to, speaking tenderly
to the wind with soft falling noises. Bars surge
with words, passions, things not said, drinks
that then vanish, fast signs. The night arranges
itself slowly above them and its shades drop down
the faces which come inside. What happens
escapes its source and won't go back. What is found
is taken inside and hidden far from its origin.
The posters talk to one another when no one's around.
If you lose someone here, mention it only in passing.
These poems by Patrick Mackie are taken from PN Review 154, November - December 2003. Further contributions from Mackie, including the rest of the poems in this issue, are available in the archive to paying subscribers, as well as more poetry, features, reviews and reports from across the back catalogue.
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