Wednesday, 14 August 2013

From Outside

wall lips
mouth black
green damp


water mapped
on white not white

impure baby waves
where eventless
matte skin stills

picked at
tendered threads
all slow

the bacillus ink
slinks out


  1. There seems to be some life in that pond, after all. What a poem! I think I can see a mosquito sliding on the surface of that stagnant wrinkle.

  2. I do get how the pond figures for you, Marie.

    We live in an end terraced; it was the signs of damp just above the roof of the garage that sparked the poem (that's the OUTSIDE WALL if, by some unlikely turn, the Landlord's reading this).