Sunday, November 17, 2013


The silent fold of paper
that curved into shadows,
the sly light shining
from your emerald ring.
You think that I've forgotten.
Or you've forgotten

Once, we wandered 
into shops,
felt the icy wonder
of jewels caught
in nets of silver.
I saw how you blossomed
away from the crowd;
warm petals of your hidden
in those worn aisles,
sweet cardamom cream.

On the street again
to grey cobbles
in darkness,
I whisper your name,
And realize
it's no longer true.

Still, I will 
repeat it over and over,
trying to conjure
that plush weft
of your London suit
green like the water
melding moor to sea,
green like my heart, of course,
pulled into your kitchen
where you coyly mashed
the tight pearls of jasmine tea,
the copper patina
against the deep red
oriental patterened rugs,
and later with olives
eagerly dispensing their fleshy coats
under our teeth.

I thought you were a fierce adept
of birds and vines,
so natural in your breathless flow.
Damselflies floated 
on the walls
behind the gloss
of your haloed hair.

I ranged your library,
seeking out in which volumes
you might have secreted 
childhood violets.
The scent of their decay
leading me on.
I felt a glass of sherry
in my hand,
catching some last light
of Sunday,
when we'd let that Fado
recording spin and
cover our unspoken

Do the campions still bravely wave
rosy greetings 
this late
in the season?

Hello, Hello

as we trail
the night

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