March 13th, 2014


New sort of love poem


Love's fever has burned through: I convalesce.
Drink the thin broth of heart-ease, that was ache,
Boiled from my bones and blood. Somehow we make
something from feelings as they evanesce

as steam. We scrape the scum off with a spoon.
discard, add salt to wounds. The sting's the cure,
the pain's the healing. Full of doubt be sure
that in love turns to love, perhaps quite soon.

You peck my pale no longer burning face,
visit with grapes. Suggest I breathe fresh air.
Take me from sickroom. Drive me fast to where
Your small light shows my way to some high place

I see picked out in gold and near-black grays
some promised city glimmers in the haze.

And a poem for my younger self


Like snake that sloughs off skin against a stone
we feel it loosen, tear a little. Scratch.
There is a thought that we must sometimes catch
and hold a little pressed against the bone

that cages head or heart. It is not true
we won't get free. The tatters that we wear
will fray away. Disposable as hair
we wind round finger, drop into the loo

and flush away. The itching drives you mad
the tatters pull away like scab from knee
when you were five – and this was true for me
will be for you. Night terrors you have had

bound trapped disgusting never free – scales, dust.
Raw pink beneath. Believe this, love – you must.