this orange boy
on his orange bicycle.
lady lollipop. stop.

what, then, of this -

sliced in two halves -

a bloated grapefruit

afloat in a jar?

its sweet pinkish

flesh i mistook from afar

to be none other than that

of your great, swollen heart.

could you, my darling

before two bottles

of wine

take my hand and

hold it good

then close the door

and kiss me tired?

i really hope

that you would.

O

- against which

there rake

branches

that rust

and grate

into

frayed ringlet

curls upon

curls

across midnight

floor-board

slats

as cork or

chalk is

smudged

upon,

against or

on

which - this

stretch of

indigo

sheen - with

a cellophane

pallor

that gleams

as virgin tomb-

stones

of marble;

then hammer.

then chisel.

then name.

this bough-like arm is a man’s
clasped ’cross your
back.

the cellist strikes
his pose;

makes to creaking
strums as in manic
throes

of a furore, gentle struck,
framed in flickers of you

spitting golden blue hum
and plucked one by
one

through blizzards of spray,
as the bow’s

unfastened strings
snap from lash to
lash

and silently thrash
at this

arm, bough-like,
this man’s,
clasped.

this was the message:

it’s only a paper
moon. so

i aimed my chin
up, to

the bobbing Chin-
ese lantern

and watched
the pallid, frail turn-
ing sur-

face cur-
ling in-
ward; a burnt,

and crum-
bled

heap.

and so it was!, i learnt.

A Silver Birch

stood alone and shunned by huddles
of bigger trees and rugby boys,
wilts slow the light in glinting puddles
with hollow drips of penny coins.

this silver birch of peeling skin,
this sinking feeling sinking in;
swells wide your lacuna then; and
you - its confused denizen -

besmirched, befuddled and all too
parched
will lap the white right from the pool
and lay thee down ’til blooming
March,

from deep below the sodden earth
return the embers to your hearth.