The day becomes a grey lawn. Lover, the phone
is empty for YOU. Well in this version
it’s my tomb waiting for a sacrifice. Face looks
like telling a lady: I’ll trudge to meet you,
no matter the country you’re in
I’ll always be scared. The only living being in a desert
until a plain man arrives
with thumbs of snow. Let us recall his young
daughter in Jerusalem – defenceless in her lover’s
arms, balcony releasing smoke into
sequined nights. My father’s father held a dead
jew across his lap and that
hairless newborn sucked maple grief
from the flaccid breast of
daytime. These streets are empty
everyone is in the cafe with me it’s
too crowded. What am I up to lately? I read long novels
and walk aimlessly for three or four hours along the welsh
coast – there’s a very good chance
I’ve let things slip.
.
Blossom Hibbert
.