1 New Poem

Gentleman’s Gesture

There isn’t a single thing,
vibration of thin-wearing walls,
that keeps arrival time of
feet sweeping, of tracked mud,
of lovely crowding from places before
you bloom a solitary springtime:

Brilliant in light, but bare white
room shading, arrangements
yet to be handled, the life
yet there in all things.

There isn’t a personal penny
you could make from being
a cellophane pacemaker
of clearly handled transactions
from being so feather feather-light you
unsettle causes just by
taking a shoe-leather wear
of them,

But fortunes in darker places

damp form of wax-end
expression are those copper
coins still to take.