Zilch
This poem is about nothing, nothing at all,
not the emulsion of springtime, the matt finish of fall,
the dereliction of winter or summer’s wherewithal.
Forget the snow on the uplands, white as paracetamol,
and the lowlands’ languor, the cuckoo’s schizoid call.
This poem is about nothing, nothing at all,
not the glow in the parlour, beguiling as alcohol,
nor the cashier counting notes, wearing a fingerstall,
nor the nervous walk home late wielding an aerosol.
This poem is about nothing, nothing at all.
Page(s) 73
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