The Hook From Which You're Hung

You are no vessel for your charms;
their high flying feather frightened
by the beach shell-cockled ear
From the ragged ends of arms display
cascade the broken synapse
that reconnect in dark array

Now apple cores for your mind’s eye,
lizard skin and red dust devils
while wind cold-cirrus paints the sky
Reduced to wandering dishevelled
in chequered cardigan and tie,
sadly worn to seed and furrow levelled

And on your dream-teeth whitened
the taste of salt dissolved
on a breath of windswept tear

April 2010

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