Dominic Leonard
They don’t look like the portraits but I know
That it’s him. I can see them all
In the dark green dark, up to the ruffs
In inky water. There is no time
To ask why there is such an ornate
Source this deep in the woods,
Just his lovely face and
The blue Halloween smoke, their eyes
Televisions reflecting moonlight
As the black wind rains down.
They bob around, bumping
Into each other like seals in the night.
It is not like the opening of Friends.
They are not here to have a good time.
I circle the fountain, trying
To absorb the necessary
Information for when I wake up:
The positions of his moles, the texture
Of his hair, whether he bit his nails
Which is forgotten now. Keats
Once wrote he wished he knew
What angle he wrote at, at his desk—
But I know that he was a competent paddler.
His desk still exists or doesn’t,
Two equally numbing possibilities.
I could have helped them out –
I could have gotten in! –
I could have asked them anything
But they looked so peaceful, they
Never took their eyes off me but I
Did not feel threatened, I felt like
I was being permitted something,
Allowed to put my hands on
Some cloaked, unparalleled thing,
Even though they just gazed
Up at me like lost fish, like they
Had no idea who I was,
Which is the strangest thing about
Him – can you believe it? – he
Never even knew me.
Dominic Leonard was born in West Yorkshire. His writing can be found in The Poetry Review, Poetry London, PN Review, Pain, the TLS, and elsewhere. He won an Eric Gregory Award in 2019, and the Oxford Poetry Prize in 2022.
andotherpoems.com 