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.