2 New Poems

A Kiss Or Something

My American love, the stories we could

star in ice storm Boston harbour's blue,

in the pastiche patchwork of Sante Fe style

rooftop spectres and Highway 61 underpass sketches.

We could write tales in the rust red pine,

draw new shades on orange grove pyres,

in unison sing out rough folklore’s lyricbook,

pages scattered, torn in Nevada's wearing winter wind.

We could swim hymnal-spoke riverside,

length-stride of great men in footprints unfilled;

it would be the giving up, the molt of

rosary-tossed and spectacle-seeking rejections.

We could, we could, couldn't we?

After Hours

You find it in the whispers

of hushed-clatter Italian leather

in Tuesday torrents and half-shaven

Wednesday mirror morning, nothing

so fine as being close.

You find it in the vicious

deadened bus brake screen

cast of buzzing beer brand neon

in pockmarked late-early pizza

grease and plate paper stain windows.

I find it in the faint

scent of placard paint on

your lipstick traces, memoriam

of brick shavings and teargas

temperament you hold like a family broach-pin.

I find it in the cold

honeysuckle stick of November's

skipping rapids sunlight to the

Ikea shelving and anarchist cookbooks:

a sentiment we thought worth sharing.