Poem

Flatdeath

The moon swagged low and heavy.
The moon sullen and jaundiced as a blowfly peach –

To leave the room.
To leave it glib and confident
in its warmth and casual nakedness,
dense hum of sex and honeyed toast

To walk through the morning.
To walk through its skulked horizons,
battered grey battening down
dented branches, fractured rooftops

The sky cut cold from waiting
The sky scattered and buried as a china cup –

*

I have taken to building
pictures in the morning.

Here is a body,
blinded to me by skin and sheeting.

I don’t know how the breaking
of all this is to be achieved.

*

The lamp is moon gold. The master dyer’s indigo
halts abruptly at the angles
of its influence.

Nothing but a room
is permitted corners.

Stepping outside, burnt
branches oppose frost whiteness.

To walk through the jumble of smashed tiles.
To leave, bladeless on the ice rink.
To leave -

Anne Brechin
London, UK

I sell telephone conferencing. It is remarkably rewarding. You should think of getting into it, seriously. Communication is recession-proof. Words not money. Words not money.

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