South Coast

My love, the moderns are not here
To bleat and shiver and ask why,
Without the breast flesh of a pigeon,
Like a cyst in the organs.

Your blade cut me once.
My cheek a fire on a distant island.
As a sacrament, a doorway, a mother’s love,
I wait in obscurity for my own insipidness to leave me.

An aroma of suffocation covers the ground.
No poet? No south coast, no blood orange, no cinnamon.
Only a dull man following the flower pots up the stairs
Without the scent of death on his street shoes.

3 responses to “South Coast

  1. Those moderns. Sometimes an inspiration, sometimes a tap pit we can’t leave. They couldn’t finish their project and neither can we.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. BTW, there’s nothing insipid in your poetry

    Liked by 1 person

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