Steps along the street –
The busker playing blues
And the rain canopies –
A leather sandal, slipped over the heel,
Feet damp in the puddles.
The gallery has heavy wooden doors,
Pastel-quiet, out of the
Bargaining and bickering
The quiet of a chandelier,
The imprint of the energy
Inflicting bruises on my eyes.
In the musician’s house,
She pours me coffee
In tiny, blue-splashed cups,
Talks of daffodils and dogs
And the inner vision
That completes the eye.
Life burns through her fingers
And the air around her stings
Like too much light –
So much light burns in her eyes
It may just be the shadow of her
That clambers in my throat and fingertips.
She plays piano; all my masks
And insecurities are picked clean.
Like a bone; the dog paws at my hand –
The cow-bells at the door tinsel,
Stream, remind, defy all emptiness,
Each time you close the door.
1998