Sunday, 8 January 2017

He Comes He Goes

Pans are boiling.
A field’s small talk,
Its steam rising up
Out of the dead
And dying.

In a shallow ditch, 
A small patch
Cleared of corpses,
Two strangers
Drink and smoke.

Between their breaths,
White wraiths in the dark,
They resurrect
A famous friend;
Open an old tomb:

Now I bid you lose me
and find yourselves;
and only when you have denied me
will I return to you…

Words become smoke,
Sketching a phantom
That rising in the air
After the last cigarette.

No comments:

Post a Comment