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


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.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s