May 22, 2011

His Hands





Gentle hurricane


The thought of you
is a gentle hurricane
of sinopia coloured tea
conquering the pure
boiling water of my
mind,
your slowly darkening
moods,
taste.




His Hands

‘I hope you are well’
he wrote blankly.
I pictured his calm hands
on the keyboard.
His hands,
they have a wisdom and a knowing,
the knowing of when and how.





Time

Time, you said I’d never hunger,
you said I’d never age.

Time, you are the ticking sound of taking
the insistent claw always aiming at my plate.

Time, you drowning of rainbows
the contracting of days.