tomorrow a Mexican, loose on the wheat-grass,
prairies of the plain’s white middle
given thyme to render and sold
ad hoc, the Booker way on Spitlfield’s day
when the orange crust of day (a slough, a sleigh)
melts cavernous in deep old stays.
i’d a drop there, the beach towel folds of
your underclothes – a feature film width of
sand sprinklings down your back,
the dark nestle of your thighs against the white -
the upside down tent, righteous with
Tea-tree sidings, the tent all a’rockin.
i’d see you again on that wheat-grass
field, a line blazed tightly to your –
that’s not the way, a sage-brush elegy
smoked around the hay-fire ( a tenant
of a fizzing sandstone henge )
like the first December I left you,
over the phone and back again
‘I love you, I’m not in love with you’
ahh, the fake denouement
the time when said is placed and each
tinsel coloured line out and out
an engine pours into life – the grundle
lurch of an old piston slumping up
something from a back-woods Spielberg -
to given to analysis than blood -
you know what I know now
the sweet idiocy of my, ahem,
self-righteousness (even the dogs
can read this one, pitched above the frequencies of
common man)
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