Thursday, 2 June 2016

clove cigarette


clove cigarette
            David Bowie, R.I.P
            for Rachel
 

I.
when i heard
he'd left us
it was as if
the wind was
roaring through
the lounge
whatever quiet
safe place had ever
been, those inside,
outside of me were
shouting with the
wind and this wind
could blow out
any kind of light,
blow time itself
to useless bits,
scrub all art bare,
this wind, here,
an endless
‘now’.

he had become the
hero of his own
making down
by the wall
shadowed in the
flat cutting blades
of its wire 

II.
we were so close
to your lips, we might
have even burned
for you,
yet when time was
called you dropped
us like a clove cigarette
no longer sweet.
fingered the slabs
that joined together
the wall and already
were through to
its other side
walking clear
or swimming at
your ease
strong as a
dolphin of
the air
 
                      january 11 - 13, 2016

 Copyright © 2016 Peter Le Baige. All Rights Reserved

 

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