1 New Poem

Red Shift

The light strings spelt out Dutchman’s
fantasia, glowing to beckon with long-promised
touches of teak handicraft and finger-
stitched garments that float, sinking with
time beneath falling waters’ pressures,

that they were hung above in  bold colours,
draped out waiting for hearts broken from
sunshine headaches, bad moonshine memory,
was a reminder of cement floors
below, that pouring pace of things before

you came; what it took prepare
for the splinters and sweat streaks
that came out as centered demands,
laughing requests from the bottom of
somewhere deep in spirit that longed

for a night when things were so
broken even the front-facing air
had a quality of blood.