Saturday, 13 June 2015

1 New Poem


You run my hands together,
five fingers in grand combat
with the other: chess boards,
Cold Wars played out in
millimetres, half-seconds

when they stare across the way,
catching glance on bike-lock bridge,
atop nervy intonations, hard swallow
sea waves, follicle grease stringiness.

They are alight with distractions' air,
kind making visa appointments,
train ticket plans, impossible to keep;
shamrocks weaving in patterns with jasmine.

Some calm, cooling, collectivist cure,
crushed and reformed in super-pharmacy plastic,
some thing to throw these irrational temperatures,
that buckets from the garden hose couldn't.

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