Saturday, 16 April 2011

15: That Girl

There are girls like her, in the glacial north.

They have the patience of roadworks, they learned
to fold flowers and wait.

No bared teeth here, worried in flesh;
she lacks my predilection for howls.

She sits with Penelope’s quiet hyperbole
and weaves the downy duvet of home.

When his pinball rattled my neons,
I pitied her silken devotion, but

there is something in her poise which sticks
now that the gaudy is gone.

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