poetry

Wrapped

in a sorbet blanket

feeling safer in pastel colour

rain

drops and cars

slide below on Cleveland street.

Motors

wont quiet.

It’s necessary, at times,to let your walls down

Don’t 

be bothered

there is no quiet place. Besides

It’s better 

Right? To know

that things rush forward without you.

deaf 

to your quiet feeling.

Motors

trespass through your body.

The deep bass of buses billowing your pillow

Then

rain booms and finally

it all fades

.

.

.

.

.

I know if I drink your words

they can only detox me,

you repeat a thousand times

you only like green tea.

We taste samples of the globe

you hint that you’re looking

for more, some kind of

genetic diversity?

Well, I also seek variety.

Though I won’t move 

from where I’m stuck.

You’ve tried too often to move me

And In secret I do go on, 

seeking out voices

in university sandstone halls

and listening to beggers

as they mumble their tales and accusations

of course;to which they’re entitled.

I string together moments

of history, pinning up

butterfly wings in static 

majesty. Yet I’m stuck here,

despite how you’d like to move me.

What do you choose to tell me?

to be selective is our only salvation

to edit faithfully

eternities and betrayels

To hold up the heart’s

delicate resting places

you might not call me home

but you’ve found me

and God knows I’ve chased you.