Remainders . pic


I’m looking back on words that spoke to me of

tight spring buds seen through small panes of glass

that drew a stark cartoon against an insipid green

and me embroiled in warm sheets thinking of how

time makes a sketch of history and each craven itch

is always in need of recognition from the void,

the slipstream ¬†of life’s urges

that simple sense of loss that has claws

leaving bite-marks and bruises on cooling flesh

unwittingly, urgently, moving toward the freezer door

and men in sombre suits patrolling next to slow moving black cars

stickmen immune to vanity whose shapes are not prisoners

as they populate the space containing them

and give it substance

and I keep looking back on words that speak to me

as they come back to life cleansed by the soil they were steeped -in

unmoved by history, their romance always in the present tense

all these tidal sounds carouse with me