Sunday, 14 August 2011

Flickering Flame

The whole world is about
Not being immortal
A measure of barbarism,
thrown in
is what keeps us

Mortality the rub
a tender shy curious fumble
a robin on a rusty iron rod,
his breeze being
the dew of the moment
the only immortality.
the sputtering heart
the girlchild's red flush
in romance alluded to.

Build me a poem
like that shack we built
over a drain between the house


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