Tuesday, 15 October 2013

1 New Poem

Turning Back

The mists rose solemn in September dawns,
creaking swell of boardwalk planks beneath
our feet bare as they were in July
midday's sun remembering the way
your breath consecrated in fell patterns,
strained glass construction on the ceiling window.

Recaptured on TV crew camera prints,
sketches done by hand by the man in the suit and
tie who sat in park bends with easel and palette
and laughed as he rubbed out the mistake he made in
the peculiar shape of your eyebrows, wondered if
he should notice the bit of chewing gum stuck to your tooth.

I tired to trace the lines on compass point
last night in turning fevers hope to talk,
but would not, could not join the dance of
faithless lovers to tune of pouring glass
shapely neon holding as tight as they
do each other in posturing passions.

Stare at the clock's maddened face, wishing
once it would run counter and give some relief,
run back to mistaken haste and cover
ourselves in it like shuttered hotel blinds;
it never does, it never could, march bringing but
the scant relief of Boxing Day's dinner.

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