Sunday, 3 February 2013

Poem not written tomorrow

Did you imagine nothing would be like it is
the caresses of a stranger; it’s got dark again
like it does when the sun goes down
the habitual act of waiting
on the same street corner for the same body
to disappear / no i know
you know grief makes us all alone
& it does except for the virtuoso

who tied up lions in that circus,
the one that fell into the sea,
which is a digression from how moonbeams
mess up your hair
the credible fact your eyes
are made of petals eternally falling
to the ground yes i want to caress you
to take all the bad experiences away & make maps of Budapest out of them.

(You stood for hours in the rain
& not one person could get you to speak) 

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