Sunday, 20 October 2013

2 New Poems


Making you out as a cenotaph reading was so simple,
when I knew nothing of affections but the word of old
sustaining grandeur.

When my love is none but a chain hotel in a
side-street city, two stars at most where breakfast is Welsh cakes
and cereal

instead of full English. The stiff refusal of it comes
the same as sunset in the evening, the same as
miner's lung.

Sitting in Airports

The tacky green shade of Aer Lingus stewardess uniforms
seems a shimmered emerald bathing post in hazy
illumination of mornings when I should have slept in,
on morning when should I have built bursting effigies
of the way five year-old boys think about Snow White
in animation cells.

The oily shuffle of breakfast warming trays,
cluttered clatter of baggage wheels on moving walkways
warm from the bottom of gum streaking shoes, the sound
that woke from dead-eyed shadowing, took day's
lapel and shook it subtle, slight disturbance only
to my thinking.

Propeller props spun up again, time's leaving for
a new plain of lonely air, a new place to wear
on ankle bone and stare up at the carved buildings
named for men of plenty long-since departed,
and it was what life had been long-since, sitting, waiting for
something to start.

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