Sunday, 2 December 2012

Not Placed

Intricately worked face mask
beauty’s grotesquery / mist bangle
tear beads.

Fingers gently to lips, please
no speech listen
to the uncanny orchestra.  

Who would have dreamt
a miniature street
within a street?

Tiny figures
walking home
the vastness of shadows enclosing?

A spangled day
no sorrow in the world, discarded
bangle shall

you cut your hair short like Jean Seberg in À bout de souffle?
Who is dreaming
of? / caresses, sky a drift of day adrift-adrifting.

Snow comes in at our window
where you leant out to watch
its twirling descent

and left it just
ajar by accident. We snuggle closer while
someone out there slips and swears.

The room is already
full of snow and we have to stand on ladders
to kiss! Blackbirds hungrily

peck up sultanas.
There’s no wind
no motion, freeze frame shot.

Don’t ask me this.
How can I say?

Overnight so many birds
have landed on the moon; it’s not full light yet,
the moon’s still in its place, their friends call on them to hurry back down home.

Miles away
the town
centre early 

train, early 
bus, ragged
and unwell.

Mouths slip from kissings.
The hard snow of that winter one
time another brief snowing, a sparkling crust,

mouths slide apart.
Winter flowering eyes.
The orchestra of glass harmonicas. 

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