23 October 2009



tell me what is worse
making calls you know won't work or
people who’ll effuse happiness;
yes, I do it occasionally – especially
when depressed

but the soul I need to connect with
is less an enigma than memory’s
figment of an old, frayed parchment
with words, sacred in their paucity,
as far between as forever

I live in the gaps
where time stood still – it is at best
an arrangement bereaving
conjunctions left on one leg
applauding blindly

you don’t know me yet,
maybe you never will but that
won't mesh with gnocchi’s
yesterday integrity of
memory’s blandishment
© 13 September 2009, I. D. Carswell