A Short Series on Synchronicity
A view above the mini-mart
Of the hollow-laden thatch.
Smoke’s in fashion.
A warm, empty bed.
And yet: you know you are not dead,
When arms of experience and sweet-fair
Might shield you.
Inconstant metal hexagonoid carriage
Drowned in aether
Seeking only a draft for the drought.
Taut love, a transfiguration:
Trade new for one you thought
Sought to save: sought to lose
Yourself amongst cursive eyes amongst
Backstreets in post-light entropy
As the jackets huddle
And you seek the seams at the
Heart of the city and yet:
It is you who were taken in
And, for a time, saved.
Walk the End of the Line
An elegance far beyond my early stretch
Excellence in lines of thought
And speaking fears beyond fears
There you are.
How is this?—
Synchronicity of our failure to abide—
Linked, not just in arms,
But in destination
(Here at the end)
To get to the root of this coincidence
I asked of God. The answer, of course,
Was yes. A cross by the bedside.
And then we were transmuted:
Bound too quick, and yet,
(Which we knew)
And which was I to you? Translated
Ecchoed transparent reaching
And clutching: — hands bound, together,
With piano wire; — yet, pleasant.—
(And moments are ever on the go,
Taking their time whilst yours drains.)
We spoke, and kissed, and followed through
On a promise of ‘just four hours’—
Just another hour to sleep.
One last ride, and we’ll be there.
Plenty of bowls and vases, made for
Flowers, pot pourri,
Queen of Cups: jars and glass ashtrays—
The latter are full.
An embassy far from here is missing you.
Let the sheets turn cold, until
Our mouths are overcome
And the bells and whistles
Ring in our wounds
Like a cotton-mouth hangover
So fast we became comrades:
Are you good? she said;
Quite fine, I replied—
No, she said:
Are you good in bed?