Monday, 28 April 2014

25. Jam

Snarled as backmuscle.

As the tangled jamboree bunting
from last year’s drawers.

I try to unwind the traffic.

Concentrate. Create a snake
of breath forever tailgulping.

When it slithers by their
side they’ll grow loose.

Relax. All this thrashing
will welter the barbs.

There’s no escape from
the black exhale of tarmac

exhausts panting, from the throb
of one another’s tyres.

Let’s sit here, for a while,
engines thrumming.

The motes in the air are
moments outside of time.

No comments:

Post a Comment