Forget Me, Forget Me Not
Will you forget that flesh in which I’ve dwelt,
which was my poem, although it was born before?
Will you forget this flesh, this head, this pelt,
this frame of bone: this form I so deplore?
Another Form Of Madeleine
juice running down my chin,
smouldering piles of leaves
murmuring in the wind,
The sun is up, but hidden by overcast
skies, by the time you farewell your father, wave
away the taxi. Then you turn, head towards
a bowl of wheat bran and milk, and green tea
There's something queer about this place,
I feel it seep into my bones.
I seem to smell a dampness reeking
of wet decay. Tell me I'm wrong.
in the way that they
A Villanelle On Loss
Ten years gone, an ache remains,
a photo pinned upon the wall
barely leached by ten years of rains.