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Poem

September 19, 2015

 

Green Door

 

haunted by Mondrian, South Street Arts Centre.

 

With the steady glide

of an ophthalmic surgeon

re-attaching

a retina

 

I trace two perfect

set squares

with a needle point,

across the forehead of my student.

 

To form a perfect Swastika

as he faultlessly completes

the missing

punctuation on his worksheet.

 

Thirty hours later, grey rinse and corduroy,

lurks shark, beyond the tea strainer bulb

of the microphone

and I quake and I judder

 

      my untethered twin-tub

leaking

across a poem

and I crumple,

 

and I just can’t think of that Hen Harrier

drifting dawn mist battleships

or the twist tail of a Red Kite

calmly clocking the Chilterns.

 

I think of that fence,

Black,

dense,

effortless,

 

and I’m stuck in the air-lock

fighting myself

for the keys jangling

my empty pockets.

 

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