Two
Poems
The Day Before You Left
Abovestairs, on stilts, the wind's voices
play a game of circles.
I nose around for handleable rules.
A violet ray's the moon -
stir-sway fargoing arms
glowing in blue.
This sour-pickle rusk I scoff
is no dissolver.
A Sailorless Report
Not a backbone on the shoreline.
You're at Soppit's Bar.
I stalk abroad, a loose fish,
circumcised, shrunk.
What's a vacant hour for?
To be tickled with a straw.
This disgust-of-life voice
bouys a complaint.
Copyright © 2005 Christopher Barnes