Thursday 25 July 2019

breath-play (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)

Writ across my face
in silo the compound
arch is made 
out of bitter missives 
off idylls bleached into 
gantry singing 
tied up in sad yap 
and revisited as guest 
having no charm of quark,
are the burrows of your
comradeship lapel
unworn for the 
cipher school turned to 
papal kisses one by 
one to build the lagoon 
whilst white bonnet 
renders sympathy out 
the jurors