At The Fireplace
The Fireplace sharply churned the blister,
An ancient grizzled stone-worn grove god,
Eminently unimpressed by your curl-toe
Ice routine – smooth legs tucked – one crane-like
Finger softly ringing the silent day
From rusted ringlets. That pressed Duke’s
Tunic stare sliding tongues up and down
The rigid prose of the novel
Sat exhausted on your corduroy plateau.
I can’t help but feel swift sorrows,
In the golden pixie shadows,
For those ebullient myth-men that flay
Their skins for such a selfish audience.
But that was how you chose
Your bones, wasn’t it? From those
Temperate days, no shoes, attic apartment,
Always huffing the cello through St Marks’ square
Always holding the cigarette at an anxiously low barrel
Always tucking smooth legs under bleached
Denim skirt and causing rumbust amidst
The novels of the dead. And my fists
Had nothing to offer but quick grubby
Nails and old dry sweat sunk into the grooves
Like rain between the roofs of some nervous
Border town.
And how we’ve moved;
From myth to solid tower block, from shade
To unredeemed light. All the way to silent
Nights upon silent days like house-moving
Boxes stacked full with prurient pasts and bashful
Souvenirs.