ORANGE FRIDGE



I experience this world as more than dead..

I know that I feel cold that's bracing, well

on head and shoulders, yet there's warmth in bed -

that isn’t in the body of ol’ Dell.


Her body lies in fune’ral parlour fridge

in Brisbane, where her girl and grandson said

they visited her yes-ter-day and squidged 

her hair still pinned out of her eyes - for bed.


There’s something I perceive (with eyes of mind,

or heart - the part that speaks and feels and “means”)

that isn’t understood by dust, I find.

I think dust can’t; it's folk must ‘dys-’ all dreams


and longings, and commitments, friendship, hate…

Reductionists. They start defining them

as simply artifacts of a whole spate

of “concrete” chemicals and forces when


they walked behind a mirror in their world,

and found no space to live a 3D life.

The two dimensions they allowed were curled 

inside a silver-lined glass sheet. No strife.. 


seems in that world - where no-one ‘lives’ at all.

Just molecules or  membranes that get formed 

into some sheets to rest the dead that call

to take a peek. Not thinking they’ll be stormed


& overcome by pow’rful deluge, or

maybe just a delusion; but it's strong.

The insight that comes to me now is more

like: “Ask for help, where you’ve seen it come from”.

 …




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