423 Readings | 1 Rating

COMBING BEAMISH COVE

There long again
A motion from my tightness

A good one fathered up
In a dim-lit photo

Sunset circularly old
Reaching farflungs but me,

Fiberoptic meowing
The laugh of a parade

In the trajectory of ball-bearings
Packed in a suitcase

Swans sank when you arrived,
Doves rose into the nets of soupmakers

There are more than birds in my head but you
Beneath the swans

Your approach rustles
Like bed sheets intimating air –

Sweet bicycle’s flexion,
Your pooling navel,

Wrinkles from bed sheets
Like fossils of sea-grass,

Foreign phrase
Drenched in King Arthur

A gyante
Thus assaylle and guyd riddance


So as I scrabble for a pencil
To trace your outline

The eclipse of you
Burns like a cigarette

Through white paper
A penumbra of impending flame,

The black shadow
Of a great bird

Pouring through me
Headlong into open world

Posted 07/12/11
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