that secret

italic Sundays run with a poisonous doubt

a wronged wash in the what might have been

where we fidget like fleas on a rabbits hide

and verses drafted in the cross stitched sky

cannot disguise the well-practiced curses

with the pre-packed presumption of lilies

and static

abstract amongst the sheets

your limbs offer a confusion of choice

where context is lost

besides the arch and coil

of a tenderised neck

and that secret I shall whisper

into your ear?

two pronouns and a verb

you shall not remember

until the crystalline dew draws you clear

that it might be revealed in the heat of noon

or within the cold puddles of a rubicund swoon

as my fingers fund delight

from your long-drawn frown

words, refitted, rejigged, refocused, cross hair adjusted for you


◄ New Poetry Collection

sleep the sleep that hate permits ►


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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 27th May 2015 17:08

I, too, really like this. It requires more than one whip-through - with vocabulary and images that are challenging but very well-chosen both for meaning and music.

Rose Casserley

Mon 25th May 2015 22:45

Brilliant.Deep,as most of your work is Paul,but this one is at a very enjoyable depth.x

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