Thursday, 3 October 2013

1 New Poem

All The Time

The same uneasy emotion as dry land docking
waters in Creole-speaking flood plain,
the same as rooms half-lost with the motel key
and number-crunchers handles, stick flames
to licking wound crosses, the twisted-up
way we always left it.

Struggled for standing, exasperation's grasp of idea,
thoughts to convince with low expectations
and half-exaggerations that I'd be just fine,
just alright, just peachy and all that
fine-balanced jazz they write in books
that end up in the quarter-Euro bin.

Hexing, vexing, spinning plates on
waterways, fisherman's fly casts catching
between our lips, moist the barren tufts
of pottery soil between our toes, last
winter's evidence they burned as cheap oil cloth
for warmth in 35 below.

Theirs was a lover's kissing, so strong
buried the conscious 'til tomorrow's frightful
sight, the standard thing when you can manage it;
ours became nothing of the same sort,
half-bloom, half-grown tulip half-gardened
and half-even-bought.

Lampshade shadows burst forth through
dreadful midday's sun; I thought
about a comment on it, died on tongue.

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