Double Oh Seven Oh

 Double Oh Seven Oh

 

Last night you asked if Bond knew Shatterhand

was his last good face while his stick stirred ants

by a beach. Fifties France, spying on girls afloat

upon blood orange paths of a near drowsing sun,

flicking extinguished stub with dissatisfied hiss

remembering how hot lovers’ flames are doused.

Winding up ants, black on red with bitched bile,

remembered uplifted heavy grey rocks as a child;

black frantic things scuttling all compass points

and quickly we bleached our shocked nails of filth,

moved back black pieces from crushed lace edges

of her half cultivated garden to run from skirts.

Somewhere Bond forgot to fight, lost it somehow,

she looked back at him with ill-concealed regret,

all witchcraft, magic 44. Mount playground slides

like giants, caged on top of towers tasking skies,

tall Jacob’s ladders and we scurried aloft like ants,

young burnt faces overtopping lead painted chutes

to spill in descent. But nobody gets to live twice:

in time, Bond knew not when, his malady comes

in one spreadsheet more with more million cells,

his melancholic eyes burn, oozing sweeping ills,

discharging a languorous burden of sleep no more,

until that day come knocking on crossed backdoor.