Lonely days take their toll
on my bloody places – my
loose change of thoughts
line my pockets [as if one
needs such coinage] Just
a few steps down & under
running water to drown in
poetry’s instant outvoice –
I know it – I am not healed
[cicatrice marks upon me –
a gnawed stroke on it all]
& with one leap I am over
that boundary she scents
[in squatted out-pourings]
& this old disability sops/
There were times it was a
perfect thing – timetables
& tickets were followed to
[shared] clocks’ advances
& trains ran – not derailed –
or late or slow or shunted
by other men/ As long as I
said nothing/ I will need a
lover when your disease is
keeping you to a bed [with
rancours she reduced me]