Canto CCXXXIV

Television, internet, espresso
and waiting. I read Zizek and Carson.
We get to washing all those baby clothes.

I listen to a sound file of Mel Gibson
wailing like an alcoholic Job.
The babygrows will hang from door frames, waiting

for all patches of dampness to be gone
so they can meet the soft skin of new life.
A poem pops. Some facebook know-all moans

about current affairs. We are safe
within our flat, as thunder growls, shut in.
On a branch, up high, a slight sliver of leaf

unfurls unseen within the city rain.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Apr 25, 2012 @ 00:25:32

    We are safe
    within our flat, as thunder growls, shut in.
    On a branch, up high, a slight sliver of leaf
    unfurls unseen within the city rain.

    I got a feeling that this was a vault point where the whole nature of a poem changes, as in a sonnet.

    Reply

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