In one poem I drew the sun towards your eyes,
you smiled when reading it,
and yes it’s true, the dazzling brightness
often makes me feel sick.
Then there was the poem that drew us parallel;
the bar called 43, two strangers
and a glitter ball, an empty Martini glass,
the olive between your teeth,
“do you always base your poems on reality?”
you asked after reading it…
“I didn’t write about two strangers
high on Coke, fucking in a toilet cubicle did I?”
the reply hung for a little before you laughed
“well no, I suppose you didn’t.”
In the last poem I wrote you were the Devil
and I, with my feathery wings beat down,
last night I dreamt of an angel/devil crossbreed
what would one look like?
in my dream she was beautiful
but I always see the the best in things,
“what…no analogy?” I hear you ask
well my poems are the thread in a weave,
the fabric is worn and tattered
like the elbows of an old tweed suit,
or a heart that’s beat too hard,
too fast, for far too long.