Saturday 28 October 2017

1 New Poem

Signatures

I am in ink here: scribbled
on the postcard back page,
time with penny weight distinction
to genius papers and arms
thrown around clumsy world
corners at trouble’s first
dodging sign,

Inked like a roadway graffiti
stop and drilling away in concrete
shelter time.

There wasn’t enough drippy symphonic
grandeur for the speaking of
tithes between us, not enough
to squint for sense in dark.

There are, still, pooling in reserve
the splotch-making touches, soft sound
rocking wide night as upturning
tin cans clack to stone,
the means to make this all ours
at a pace.

The hang, waiting for lie and
form to be given by paper
contract, wax seals on letter
back,

the kind I could never afford to send.

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