The Scattering

by Alan Gillis

Gone through the half-hearted window
that gives like a watery eye
onto the East, the blushlight of dawn
on scuzzed rooftops, scrolled hills;

gone over open-mouthed duck ponds,
decked lawns, a populace dreaming
of ordinary sex; gone with limitless texts
through the gridded air’s dataflow,

the wheesht of elm leaves in the air,
fingers rustling a blue polyester blouse;
gone with lost souls, their children
photostreams in the cloud,

indebted and encased in metal
and the motion of their cars past yellow
fields, roundabouts, the dead everywhere;
gone into the excitation of particles

and elements in contact with other
elements and particles, like peedie
heads in a primary school playground
rushing away from fathers, mothers:

as I turn away, face the room I’m in,
half of me is already out the window
to chase and meet the scattering day
heading West, as if to say, well, hello.