02 March 2011



before it gets too late (or the
beer disappears) I’ll tell what
troubles me – it isn’t all that
easy articulating novel belief
when you’re reciting praise
of an Angel, so to speak, un-
dressed in an ordinary soul

honestly, if I don’t try it will
make an idiot of me; being
last to recognise eminently
evident scrutiny explaining
whimpered intransigence
won’t abrogate this kind of
diminuendos’ unkind beat

so who is She whose inroads
make such an impression – not
artifice of buoyant appearance
nor concupiscence freed simply
but honesty which revokes lies
about exaggerated appetite or
size of one’s mirrored satiety 

She comforts me in need – a
reflex admiration in legendary
tomes unread, in tales of love’s
dyslexia unsaid though scribed
in an affinity of dislocated words
where the purity of intent
never leaves
© 12 November 2010, I. D. Carswell