Proposition

Richard Mather

Under the aerosolised sun,

Through a delicate mist,

A plastic bag hangs limp

from an ancient branch.

A proposition shows itself.

If I follow you,

I can make an inference

from you to me, deduce me from you.

The brains of the buried

Keep dreaming --

Of paradise or of hell,

Depending on the disposition

Of the atoms and the humidity

Of the soil.