Sunday, 22 March 2015

1 New Poem

Kitchen Fixtures

It's those dragging-sharp knives,
those stinging cuts soaked in
kosher salt licks, acidic pungent
of spices tangled on tongue,
that take me, cap in hand,
to again the cobblestone corner,
the wildly-walked pacer's place,
you take in still bed sheet crease.

Homecooked presence staining memory,
there was your hand in handle,
wishing upon tablecloth settings
we could share in that heart smoulder's
glow, that quick candle-shadow
diamond commercial silhouette,
the coupling kind for those who've
never worried an egg timer's second

of diving a foursome's cookbook
for one.

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