Rupert Mallin
Remains
There’s a trench in the Earth between us this evening,
Each caught within our own circles of spit
And believe each other has over written
The other.
We pass the rumour that love is solid
But it’s writing which catches us in passing:
A shopping list, a bill, a poem, a post mortem for
The other.
We baptise our anger in gin and begin crying.
I blame the leopard skin of your dreams
And you blame the Lambretta of my working, each trying
The other.
We wail whale words as nibs of flame dance from your hem;
I lick fingers and long for the cleavage of soil’s amen;
But the specimen stain of our love making reminds us of
Each other
And we carry on.
Page(s) 169
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