Saturday, March 15, 2008


Spectare’s thoughts absently

caressed his anger
like a suppressed familiar cat,
half-forgotten as myth. Its threadbare
fur prickled. Its claws bit,
for company, and he felt
imagined pain his owned, his very,
and went out into it, the story,
donning a voice like a coat,
to stand before the self-sure,
feeling as absurd as a man
with a cat on his head,
in the bared town-hall square

like a box orator shouting
at enmities of air:

There are still stars unnamed to us, and more.

(I've been nudging this around in the past week - David Bircumshaw)

No comments: