Sunday, 10 January 2016

1 New Poem

Viennese Trinkets
It’s not so glittering here, with all
the flake crest sort of patter
making lined smile of imitation
leather; in fact, it’s kind of darkened,

with the paper letter sort of
framing, you lose that swampy
August tender, through no

but passing of sunlight,
the setting of moonshades.

The easier thing passing
hotel maid service sort of
affections through the briny
box wires bramble-snare
tongues in two by turns.

The mailing parcel of craftworked
sentiment, letters emboldened,
Renaissance pretension stiff;
it is all managed, not fainting

spells of first meeting.

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