Tuesday, 8 October 2013

1 New Poem

And If

And if I'd asked in six months time about
the shape I was in last Friday's blurry tranquil
of pale moonshine by blighted docks,
you'd say “just fine”, a smirk and that would be

And if I'd said some half-remembered thing about
your belonging to the National Trust for Preservation
of Pricelessness, some more beautied than Pollack's patchwork,
you'd say “alright” with thanking and remorse of

And if I poured the stout glass too tall and
talked to myself in crossbeam's corner
most of night's clock and cowl hours afar
you'd be concerned with lights lapping, but laugh

And if I made us two fools falling on blank
page, wishes dripping ink wells, quills
shattered at right angles from tree sap weight,
you'd look lop-sided, characters matching but by

And if I'd write one-line poems of Eros,
addressed to no one in particular, but jammed
so tight with nodding winks none could deny
you'd exasperate and clasp hands as you did for

And if I passed out in those dress shoes
with the crack in the heels on parlour carpet,
speaking things I shouldn't about hair shades and wheat fields
you'd cover me in thin comfort, waiting on a

And if you marked the door in typists fingers,
in plain old handscript flows so that all could see
the Victorian manner you'd prefer to keep it,
I'd puzzle about its suspicion, question, still knowing

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