Telephone Wires: James Adamson

Lacing the sky like a net,
like a garbage can
overturned in a back lane.
They cradle their message
even in silence, they intersect
into our behaviour
like bad weather. Even the
city’s havens take us
towards the structure
of chaos. The ordered
wires buckle and sway
to the muddy and confused sight.
What moon do we all
look upon that is sliced
up and delivered to the
best comfort of our ears
and the practice of our imagination.
It is the moon that long
ago was common to all mankind
and now we palm a window pane,
trying to recall the feeling
of a free-flying satellite
as we peer into lives
and places of friends
of a laced and netted moon.


From the book of poems, “Birds Kill My Wings” (2001).