An undated poem on the bookshop's headed paper. A poem of observation, longing, temporary joy, followed by unfulfillment...
Probably about one quarter of the poems are undated. Some you can easily tell come later in the story, others being less clear. This feels earlier, so I'm blogging it now before we get to the first dated poem (5 February 1959), which I aim to blog on the same date 55 years later, and then continuing with all other dated poems in order.
Probably about one quarter of the poems are undated. Some you can easily tell come later in the story, others being less clear. This feels earlier, so I'm blogging it now before we get to the first dated poem (5 February 1959), which I aim to blog on the same date 55 years later, and then continuing with all other dated poems in order.
I watch your cool white hands upon this book
- Hands that I burn to touch, to hold, caress;-
Then haggle laughingly about the price
Knowing that you will always have your way.
Then with a fleeting smile you go your way
And I am left sans touch, sans constant book
(Though words are dusty answers, wanting life)
With yet another yesterday, still-born.
