Thursday, 26 November 2015

1 New Poem

Memoirs for Portugal

In the drying drift of Aeroflot
tail lights, I let the skycap
hum drown out a clock’s chime,
overwhelm the intrusive wavering
of even-handed consideration,
of clustered-up pricing structures,

That kind to scarcely touch asphalt,
runway pylon before scattershot shatter.

But you’re not an observation,
a phenomenon of glitter & gunsmoke,
radiance of sunshowers, or
any other soft- spun metaphor
for 20-something passion’s naively
interlocked dreamtime escape. Then,

What was I pausing upon? Rapture’s dawn?
Not, but same sort, just thinking.

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