Romance
I met him by Swift,
Where the potential of words
And the smell of ground beans
Pervaded.
Caused the sly glances
Between soft pages
And over covered volumes.
He spoke softly, to himself and even when
We were alone, and I had to lean.
I sank softly into his
Voice. He read to himself,
Drawing me deeper with his
Silence.
Every Tuesday
At a quarter to half past five
We gathered ourselves between
The shelves and kissed without touching.
One day he finally took
Hold, and I touched his arms
As he kissed my nose.
He was sweet and tough
Like an almond. We clung
To one another and left
The safety of the cash registers behind.
09.09.07
Two poems from the same time that might actually be half decent – how about that?!
Precious
Writing on the inside cover
Of the novels she’d never enjoyed.
Never venturing out past nine
O’clock; for fear of what she’d find?
Melancholia presented herself
Alone in the attic, bare before a mirror.
He was the window, the panes, the
Sky, the sun. Gazing through the
Aperture of breeze through curtains.
They danced poetic, courted
Each other’s muses and stripped
Their ideas down. With never less
Than her petticoat, she told
With her body the story he’d read
In the covers of those volumes.
09.09.07
There’s a big gap between the writing of this poem and the one that came before – that’s not to say I didn’t write anything. Just that looking back now I didn’t like any of them!
