Towards The Equator
You spoke to me once of flying fish
how they arc across the bows
in a shower of brilliance, like red birds
too soon gone; and something left oscillating
above the sails, like a question mark,
a compass disarranged; or a window
into what we half-remember -
the zigzag tracer trail
of something too perfect to be real
and which bruises like exotic fruit
on touching. Afterwards a wanton resonance
clangs through this waterfall of days.
Here in your arms, in this deliquescent moment
memory’s red bird arcs again
but already we’re vanishing
each spinning through the other’s glittering hoop
then gone back into water, until turning
we slip like stones out of sight.
Page(s) 13
magazine list
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- Lamport Court
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- North, The
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- Paper, The
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- Second Aeon
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- Shearsman
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- Staple
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- Thumbscrew
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- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
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- Yellow Crane, The