Sunday, February 19, 2006



One day you find yourself a bullet

fired from the barrel of your old

life. In the baptism of the shower

you begin to speak fluent

Dolphin. No one stops to inform

you smell like a sarcophagus

and the clouds begin

their strange worship of your shadow.

What was it about London

that plagued you so long

ago? The girl whose hair haunted

your hands does not

speak Dolphin, not even a word

or enough to confess

desire beneath the blue shell of a wave.

You are free to forget

at last, in this hour,

while the sun spills about you,

the last memory

of her breasts.

And so you do.

Your pockets cough up hidden inheritances

and the song you sing

is, well, not your own

but if your mouth were a bucket

today it carries the tune

well enough

that you cause the air no permanent offense

and while flowers

do not follow

you like the time-lapsed sun

neither do

the squiring bees

who would die

to leave in you

the thorn of their one and only venom rich sting.

If this is not


then nothing is

and nothing could ever be.


Paul said...

This probably won't be. Book 3? Too early to know!

Anonymous said...

Is this in your new book? I so hope it is.

Anonymous said...

I love this poem. Brilliant!