WRITING FOR A CHANGE 4

(For 3, see FB 13/10/16)

 Over

In the grey space

between dimensions

tumble inchoate ten thousand cups

 

of tea we’ll never

brew each other, tangles

of washing never to mix

 

In twin-tub or automatic.

On the white sands

of western shores remain

 

ghostly potentials

of our unshod footmarks.  Unfleshed,

embraces we might have known

 

in clean white sheets beside a window

open to the ancient wave-song.

In every pub, tables

 

wait vainly for our set-down glasses;

rushing roads will never know our journey

into the country of our longing.

empty-road

 

 

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