It is not something we can help;
We have met,
Together we are virtually apart;
In the gloaming, I am the shaven
Man, misboarded and trammeled
At my Lord's High Table;
I am His, a renounceful creature,
My pale blue fingers cannot grasp
The coolness of my soul
Or hold the gut feeling I have
For you. They cannot trace
Montparnasse, the bohemian quarter;
Its roofs like metal sheets;
The heavy rain falling.
A kestrel, hovering, wing-beats
Above the earth -
Touch it! Touch it! The intangible -
When it falls, there is death
Two days ago, I found you dead
On the roadside.
In my absence you have grown lean;
You have become shrunken, your feathers
Momentarily, I had your trust;
Your spasms of death were dying.
A blunt, bloodied head
Rested on my fingertips;
Two feet long in an arrogant display
Of thin-headed violence;
Unmoved by life or mercy, but purely
Predatory, static and waiting for the kill.
Wild Clematis - the name keeps
Slipping out of memory;
It is fixed now as an old man's beard
Bedraggled like a toothless grin.
Your autumn fruits shone
A sudden locality
And my pace slackened.
Suddenly, the world erupted into violence
And the cries of pain were loud.
Abomination followed Tyranny
Pebbles rolled round; flung
Back to the grinding ocean;
Pushed forward once more.