old fingers of mine
poor old interlocking fingers
knuckled like an elephant’s eye
through a dusty sun setting
across the savanna of a life
in toil my poor hands wrung dry
the tears of a day’s graft
sniff-snuffled closing that eye
the knuckles kneed is done
let me paint you that picture
that turn on the steep hill
cobbled behind the art gallery
dropping down by the blue light
close to the home for the destitute
i have walked that lane many times
only the art gallery has seen my footfall
standing and staring at that painting
of a turn hard on a steep hill
behind an art gallery
hanging there
‘the rapture of our rage’
the catechism of mirror isomers
rage v quiescence
love v hate
hello v goodbye
the same neurotransmitters fire
as do freeze such experiences
one person’s stain
is another person’s flower
one’s puckishness
another’s aphorism
shout all you will
if i smile back the bomb is diffused
better to smile with a knowing look
and leave me wondering if
a poem to james
