Megrims
I am peeved when poems look like poems. It is the same
with people. Treacle gets to me. I am good with gruffness
if that heart has a beat. It is discomforting to decode ciphers
in spaces of peradventure. Comfort lies in contextual certitudes.
I turn to switchwords when my circuit needs decluttering.
In this haze, curlicues of desire shine to your capriciousness.
The time for emotional éboulement is over. The road is ready.
Status Quo
The monsoon again picks on me.
It is time to alter the moorings of
the mind. I attempt to fine-tune
my gaze and upshift it to top gear.
I chivvy the wind to pleasure me.
But all there is a sheaf of paper
from my just done manuscript in
dance postures on the draggy floor.
Postcard
With the skim of your prothalamion
still playing, I’m mindful
that I must conceive a coronach.
Unkinder turns may have occurred
to others: I’m in no
mood to be in the record business.
I grieve with you, my love. May you
acquire the fortitude to face
the withdrawal of his care and carriage.
Comments