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You’re whirling, in a dance class like a pig on a spit a battered baby in a world of free kicks
a thousand popping flashguns it's an Italian wedding lightning simmers like a pressure cooker on the boil then shrieks over Woodville backyards
under a summer umbrella, out of touch we consider getting together
unzipping an unused pocket in a crowded room unexpectedly finding the rounded gravel of an ocean beach the pieces of a shared event a swollen bowl of hot clear soup a sudden burst of chilli
in this pocket, pieces of your grave smile in your hot mouth, the gritty taste of pears
thinking, I send a sudden telegram across the room
© Stephen Cassidy, 1992 |
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You’re whirling |
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poetry |
