ARR 1988 - Flipbook - Page 97
Love Poem
Thoughts compress themselves
into a fist
every small gesture tumbles
over the distant brinks
and gathers
in shallow oceans of
forgetfulness.
All the clenching waits we've waited
(all the melting fingers, fingers
pressed in havoc embrace)
play the kettle-drum of quiet rage:
your boredom.
my confusion.
The light unfists and scatters a day or two
a week or two.
Geoffrey Nutter
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