The Bermuda Triangle, by John Kinsella

21 November 2012

Pat Rafter, saviour of Australian tennis,
mantains a comfortable existence on Bermuda;
the flight of balls determined by the weather
which island-culture makes more tropical
than it should–the concentration of emptiness
and expectation like nationalism postponed
and sent offshore–the Queen’s English
an experimental turn of phrase on the front
doorstep of liberty, the fraternal vanishings
of flight on flight of the right stuff, as if play-
station IS living, as if a package holiday
has you hungering after the wealth
of the pyramids, concentrated to an echoing
point of ambiguity, like the limitations
of radar,and re-runs of The Day the Earth
Stood Still–remaining black and white
as childhood–making an ocean of the river,
the bright ship whispering through the ever
widening hole in the ozone layer.

[Read in Peripheral Light: Selected and New Poems, published by Norton. Ripped from]


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