what’s swallowing us

Happily, there are moments that wedge themselves

like the splintered bones of birds

in the throat of what’s swallowing us.

Paris,

 

the arse-end of the Seine,

wet woollen clouds, the sun barely dressed

above the rooftops,

me drinking Ricard and smoking

 

like Gainsbourg in my caleçon.

It’s eating our lives,

shitting our days and nights

in piles, but looking back some things

 

rise up full-bodied and clean

like this and my false-memory of you in London

high on a line of Tituba,

a beautiful, wild-thing with exquisite breasts

 

ready to fly from a bedsit window

in Herne Hill. Who can

regret the steady effacement when

such moments live like let-go balloons

 

defying extinction against the blue?

 

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2 thoughts on “what’s swallowing us

  1. I need a love button –>”like the splintered bones of birds
    in the throat of what’s swallowing us.”
    lushly delivered … so glad to have you posting again … please do it more often

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