Strung

Am I rebuffed by your cooling love?
I tremor under naked phone lines –
oscillating – now wind-touched –
Silent are our words in the wires
which we strung to allow such whip –
Without voices they are set to squinch
and tighten before a snapped mishap
of misunderstood tensions – of speech –
No text – no reveal – such cold harm
here – left open – rough translations
like the coded language of telegrams –
Are muted signals your intention?
And I’ll sit by my phone – as if
your voice is the waited-for-gift

Ozymandias

Lifted from water, brown as the Nile’s,
he was found under Cairo’s dust-slums,
in a bare-foot place of disrepair,

(another ruin to make Shelley smile),
given up, again, to the constant sun,
him, the lost King, Ozymandias.

uncovered, “boundless and bare” –
from under the city’s ruined piles,
in a three-tonne bucket, he becomes

the brief provider of a foul rain,
as the mud, which was newly carved,
slipped back to the dragged-at hole

from which he, the busted Ramses,
was shifted, ignobly pulled.


News Story Here