Tuesday, March 17, 2009


the proud line of your tailoring moves
me. Tuck the sag of years into line; crop
each spasmic landmine to its limit you
were my favourite unplanned closure, you
were my best sign of misdirection
with grime you groove foggily to the lapsing
beat-heart of my weakest pet, my sickly
sparrow wormless and breaking in a bath
of porridge – goopy flapping of the end
of days –

do not leave I have sweeter
meats to feed you yet –

Our lament: left alone, like so much lunch,
overcharred, undersundered – nude hams,
merely basking in the burn of your urbanity.