What words are there?
With which to express disappointment
That you will not see or remember
Some of the truths we have said.
That you have perceived that I
Or perhaps you still believe that I squandered
The bright flag of friendship
For an impetuous rush at the shore.
This is the disappointment that I in writing these words
That you and I are unable to relax in the air
Real love makes.
This is not necesscarily the heated air around sex,
Or the smoke fuelled curls of enjoyment,.
It is not the trapped belch of drinking
Or the bargain and rush of events,
But simply that sharp surprise breath
That some people use to serve singing,
Or the breath inside Pinter’s poem
Caught in ‘It is Here’ for his wife.
This is the sheltered air that thrusts thought
Forward as its tiny badge or mind-flower,
The brief gasp expanded in the particular
Agreement friends make.
Friendship is extremely important to me
And means a different thing to most people;
It is a covenant sought for in the modern world’s
Lonely quest. It is not association, or school,
Or something to do on the weekend,
It is about understanding, enabling those without
Words to reflect. It is depression’s resolve;
The balm for doubt, the solution. It is the desire
To open both the argument and the heart.
And to let others in
So that they may fill us up
With their living. It is unlike any other,
Which is the only proper gift I could bring.
Very few understand.
The wide world waits.
Here’s my collar.
I fasten it, slowly,
Checking one last time
For your wind.
If we could, we’d find ways to fashion ourselves
A new weather; one that blows answers
As frequently as the grit.
With that assured we’d walk well, separately
And together, eyes bright with questions and unhurt
By the hale as it hits.
But the world we know is not that. And we have only
The rain and sun product. The world we know
Does not govern. Even if, of course, it is judged.
And so I lock my thoughts into trial, While twisting
Skies to turn fearful. Casting these words through rain falling,
Words that you will never see. Love is smudged.
If there was a cost to be paid then I ran out of change
Very quickly. What I could afford I wrote to you,
Truth’s currency bound by price.
I attempted to honour the sun as it tried to shine
Through dense weather. Stretching a light I’d drawn for you,
Part of an ominous cloud: black from white.
The colour of rain is to do with the particular thought
Looking through it. The specific flavour of weather
Is there in the breath of the kiss that feels right.
I taste it now, writing this, imagining your singular joy
In the morning. It is in the worlds we make that each reason
Is in reaching the heart, lost to sight.
There is a river in me
Which was once a sea, raging for you.
There is a now a reservoir, bordered
Where once there was a gale, a monsoon.
This year, the sun has bleached on
But I have been no special protector of water.
Though, I have, in my way, tried to keep it
Impossibly in my arms.
Naturally, water runs, changing itself
To new water; mature tears intermingle
With the wilful adolescence of sweat.
Kisses run dry, pressed into books like spent flowers.
Even ejavulate mirrorst he empty expanse of lost love.
All is revealed as I stifle pain with saliva,
Eating no doubt, for protection; a shield for the heart
Through skin fat. Then, on the spit, a small boat,
Unknown and quite unexpected, bobbs and waits slyly
For the disconsolate shore to react.
Illustration: Claire Palmer
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