a delicate boned girl,
mane framing shoulders,
leaps out.
She hides a poem in a shell, lying curled
guarded, for ten years - a conch
so lonely
slicing through time.
She rattles the door
to my boat, won't even leave me in peace
for a decent hour.
She hides a poem in a shell, lying curled
guarded, for ten years - a conch
so lonely
slicing through time.
She rattles the door
to my boat, won't even leave me in peace
for a decent hour.
Grey sky now.
Has the locket sprung open?
An alert of other forces?
Unerringly she points to questions,
that are supercilious,
about the times we should have taken.
An alert of other forces?
Unerringly she points to questions,
that are supercilious,
about the times we should have taken.