Clink Street
Surreal. I don’t deserve this or explain
the graffiti, orange dust. Smelling salt
like an idea before bedtime. Pain
is a solution. Carve me. I’m a vault
left wide open. (It’ll teach me.) Paris
is a long sigh. If I could only cope.
I used to be a rubber band. Harrod’s
was my lucky day. All the cakes of soap
in my hand. The universe rattled. Sliced
open, the luxury of this island
requires desire crypted. The whites
of poached hearts slippery. A strange asylum.
I’m your only lover. A hover-craft
poised for another country. Look, I’m glass.
Sonnet Being Buried
I looked for her and I found her standing
in a corner interrupting order.
I’m burying my guitar, abandoning
cigarettes. She’s a stormy sea, mortar
won’t keep her away from me. The sky rocks
like a pallbearer. This ice is killing
me. I went straight to the edge. It’s a cost
I thought I could afford. Clearly willing,
I’ve ached like Omaha in the slaughter.
I’m no hero. But I’ve wished I could claim
what’s in her heart. I don’t know. I caught her
logic in my throat. A pulsing vein, Spain.
Insistent chattering sea, you don’t know
me. I’m a northern sky sputtering snow.
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