markbousfield

RACH 3

'Enchanted soliloquies
echo brilliant in
the lowing raptures
of twilight.'

I pointed out
the portrait your father drew on your wall
as you sewed the buttons to my coat,
laying
half awake half of the day,

eating the blues and drinking the whisky
my muscles remember
even if the deposits of time since don't.

I no longer live on the Northern Line,
with it's violets of night time traffic
feeding the fins
and the red skin teenagers,
the daytime bathing we now enjoy alone.

The comfort of our ritual
loosened with the tiles of a tendon
and the most literary of leverages
lame in an artist amidst envy,

emeralded eyes
and youthful lakesheens of
Ophelia's shiver lilies,
the clinging quiet of retracting years
appeased in the disguise of our departing fears,

The vin de jour tap-tap-taps under the hood as
the churls of my soft hand runs swift
between the numbness of your hips.

sorta soiled and quenched by the cold
the thirst of life escaping the body's mould
twists steel in the echoes of a once safe concrete hallow.