| BRUCE ACKERLEY SIX POEMS
Doppelganger
My eyes have seen you –
In the far light of attic windows,
Polish of a simple spoon.
Every day is the same.
It is I, who am blown each way
From spoke to spoke.
I, who should have known
When he slipped – jet-black,
From the grocer’s slab –
The serpent is your only sign.
A drip from a land soon a-flood
With scales; my vision rimmed
With lime; fangs too – for that matter,
And even the fearful Hatter
Would run from my disarray.
When like leaves; like drying sheets
You shake out sanity,
Through to the final fold.
Where I fall in the lap
Of a passing train; packed
To the gunwales
And every passenger’s face –
The same; the same torn look
Of heads hung up like bells.
The ticket collector’s no time
For my ticket – And his face
Of course, is mine!
So we go – like Goya,
To the murder rooms; rooms
Without doors. Where I break
With the beat
Of St Vitus fists, till the blood
Runs over the floor.
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