Saturday, 20 January 2018

1 New Poem

Rubber Burns

If we weren’t so rash about this,
so falling from stillborn skylarking
there wouldn’t be
the marking masks, the chewed bone
expressions on royal gold faces,
making mock time of crackling leaf
burn-ups , half-dawned realization
of blank space.

But, then, at least I am:
the first to know, last to speak
on all things great of heart,
all things pitch-blackened in depth.

So lily-shamed the crossing of
almshouse manner, we flicker
across boot-mud floor as
wax wicks in barn door wind,
contrasting creaking board,
drizzly coffee stains in this
warmer blanketed space;

I drown with cracking drywall dust.

Yet, still dreaming in crystal glass
of oceans still, rising times
from long-sought mist, there is
a hope undamaged for once from

A slumber’s together,