..
This poem is the magnificent mum
-bling of her truest heart, a violent
stuttered start to some darkest hour
-long daze.
This poem is tired of all the lies
and lines and fragile fine ties
that strangle, bind and grind us
all to nothing.
This poem is something of
a small semblance of sorry,
a quiet quarry of stones no
longer thrown.
It’s off the record, scribbled
in invisible ink and a long slow
drink of some distant sirened
sea.
This poem has lost its marbles, and
found itself in onion-skinned silence,
soft-chalked stars, and the violence
of breeze.
..
In November, we poem.
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