Sunday, 13 May 2018

A conversation

Caretaker has on and off eyes
that midway don’t work
a pause in breath/ affect
with face like sponge contracting

I do my distancing but

As branches curl about
biowaste bins at the back
look up to see bent up cross
in white trails above
the spectral froth

He says the key sticks now and again
and laughs there and then stops


  1. How can the earnestly hungering soul ever distance itself from a disdainful and capricious trickster divinity that relentlessly litters the world with consternating signs and omens of its withdrawal from the vaporous toxic heaven(s) in this painfully epiphenomenal way, leaving us agape and holding the bag of cloudy biowaste?

    The caretaker isn't telling.

  2. Perhaps the caretaker isn't "telling" but this fine poem certainly is.

  3. Thank you, gentlemen. Capricious trickster is about right.