Sunday, 3 April 2016

1 New Poem


Professorial papers, unshredded legacies,
postcolonial pastimes give
off airs to waning conversation
like pre-Confessional movements:
still suit-and-tie, but wider-open,
but controlled in pen line,
to what we are.

Blurry but for the half-manic
blush of celestial turning,
the handicraft of Swe-Danish programmers
with imperceptible accents
as grid piping,
as semaphore happenstance.

Hang your hat to fencepost,
gated garden twine at
noon-hand striking, at
Queen Lace when night runs
aground on dawn light; have somewhere
to lay heads. If not
next as matchmaker pinheads

Then dreaming, dreaming
of circles unbroken. 

No comments:

Post a Comment