Monday, August 10, 2009

the bridge ~ mark cobley



when you are gone

and i lie alone.

my mouth tastes of odd things

old pyramids
lost packages

those bits of wood
that railway lines run on

yachts. that is the end of yacht trips

sometimes exotic fruit.

fun fairs after fun fairs have gone

diesel colours in the lake following the boat.

reeds, cardboard cups, ice cream sticks

token polystyrene


floating


i am afraid to kiss.

when you approach


a derelict house
in an acre of field
the red hair
grief is a terrible monster.

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