Friday 9th March


She talks so delicate with surgical precision, cuts her hair short,
dresses like a man. I thought she was a boy on day-release from
lap-top trancing in a twilight bedroom at the back of the world.
I thought she wore a flowered blouse when I glanced – her arms laid
on the table. I’m attracted to her voice it caries light & hope & clarity.
I want to be one’ve her boys, echo their thrill. I want to write poetry
to her tattoos, exhibit her in galleries, dedicate an installation to her
like a shrine. I want to cup her light in the bowl of my hands & carry it
like a beacon through the rain.
Down streets of eternal Sunday morning.