Your novel cry
More shriek
Calls the night closed
Your shift, probably
All talons and beak,
Black yet still
Eyes haunted
The factory floor
For any small part
Not paying attention
My Own Words In My Own Way
Your novel cry
More shriek
Calls the night closed
Your shift, probably
All talons and beak,
Black yet still
Eyes haunted
The factory floor
For any small part
Not paying attention
I felt flushed,
stabbed, bereft,
unguarded,
isolated, indolent,
effervescent and outstretched.
Undone, incapacitated,
unconsolable, unhurried,
hidden and poor.
My eyes came to rest
As they usually do
On the middle distance
On the not quite anywhere
As one might casually
Bear witnesses (as one usually does)
With fascinated second sight
To the play of children
Or eyes cast out
To sea
In search of maybe yet a
Ship to come in
From some less
Slightly remembered visit
I imagine the heat
All silent remiss
Its authority creeping
Between houses
Muzzling the breeze
A blanket search
Arresting even the slightest
Stirring curtain
No quarter given
To the restless
Thick in the air
Making the skin stick
Of even the slightest
Lovers