before our hands had their writing paper
you dropped a pie at Victoria Park
in a wily conjurer’s flash of distraction
now our palms cannot be read
carrying all the criss crossing delta
these everglades are unmapped
but an outline of things always remains
like a photo from an orbiting satellite
the tracings under the palette board
revealed in brush and knife overlays
as specific as an exclamation mark
or hypnotic as a revolving scoreboard
tallying the points of rushes forward
scratching the old parchment tickets
the turnstiles within the pastry
the cheer squad where my sister said
you were too much woman for me
but then your empty fingers touched mine
Marvelous poem, James. I particularly like how the poem (and its dimensions) folds in upon itself, expands, revolves, goes a little way and comes back. Satellite orbiting all of this. Cheers.
ReplyDeleteAh Rob, you see and hear, from all the angles. Thanks so much.
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