Thursday, 2 March 2017

1 New Poem

States of Movement

The glass still traces blood oak aromas,
a tilling kind of cross wind about cabin
planks: how you kept names in mind,

How little you brought up separations in
voice, the mild blankness of clock
faces, when we had nowhere to be.

This is racing to a kindness calm,
a criss-crossing shrug of rewinding
tapes that trace too much back,

Too much the literate piecemeal,
Monday nights with computation cracking,
spirals to same ends, as ever.

But I’m still here, still the light dust
of heavy airs, they find a long release
in, still pretending to float

Above the muddy-roofed buildings,
above the petty fading of shirt collar
kiss marks, diving back to cold ground.