the yellowing glue in the cardboard spine – inches of vertebrae traversed by typography – holds together a sepulchre of pages where milky wrists laid thoughts to rest far too early – and i hesitate, knowing i am only a graverobber
Huddled under a single shelter they Wonder if this bus will be theirs If the rain will stop or if There will be a metro left at the station Did they lock the front door or leave It on the latch Will they be late or did they pick up their lunch Too late now […]
Two tower blocks are women Brushing their hair that reaches the ground, Turning around so the strands Spool down from the balconies and Their faces are hidden.
Alabaster light. A cold-fixing Frost roots leaf To leaf; welds its chill In each vein. No thaw. A raw Thrown glassy stare From window panes. One half- Breath of air And I The plum tree With my mouthful of stones.
A sketch in chalk, stilled and blanketed. Undulation of pallor, rippled by the indecision of lungs.
the sky opens up, yawns, spits out the sun, spews light like skimmed stones, delicate as elephant’s breath
She took a glug Of bleach. Exhaled as Hell’s treacle drooled like honey Down her throat. Her vomit And coughs And cries Were clean.
The dead, black traffic Like slanting points of grey air Cut down the field’s edge. Old, like hands, tender As the old tooth of sorrow. You noticed again.
On this dark November night: Flaming stallions, Scorching steeds ignite the heavens With their fiery feud.
The ascent of the glaring, blazing sun; Soldiers marching on.
Pressed leather hands He stares, lost Repairing thin soles
Tiny five pointed pennant Unfurling on the flag post fence warning us loss is dangerous.
Rush hour: sunlit Heads shift halos In the specks of dust.