27 Jun 2011


for S.G. 

It is almost night
the sky is your favourite shade of blue
the dim tinted blue you feed your silent white canvases,
the dumb rectangles you give lips to.
I hold your paint brushes to my heart and weep,
anything you have touched.

I’ve done all the necessary clichés;
read your old messages and kissed them
dreamt of you on long train journeys, and
in foolish childish haste mistook every man as you                                      
                                                                       every man is you
                                                                                  every man is you.