Tulips sound the husky yard, trumpet soft as leaf-mess //
moss on compost.
About the goat track, huts in back-lit noon, docked about
the trees like schooners
on an in-bloom swell. Once honed, these complexities might
enter the world, might funnel, spiral’d down
upon the masculine city, might round his edges.
Water over glass.
The South will come here in fresh-air cars, gush
spills in gash-lakes, caked as amber
where there was none // will canter ruts of lane and gorge
and speak gorse-tongue.
These gloveless hours before your shares
are read, before your language
is a dead-sea language (dries the lips bit-cut as coins
in cart tracks) what chess
is not a salivating
The world can be closing
in around you, doors like department-store tinsel
my friend, but you will emerge from this business
immersed in it’s strands.
These Gloveless Hours
1 August 2015