Flies – pt I

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All day long, away from the cloudy wind

grabbing flies from the air

Absurd irritation in their dizzying dance
and so rude,
the small and silent attack
on personal space

Poetry works when small and large things
are put in dialogue

Like my hand on this page, or me in this house
and the flies around my face

Is that rain?

Photo-frame

She sat crying into her hands
in France
 
Wishing to be drunk
in dusk
 
Someone’s veranda faraway
in Australia
 
Spoken cackles
beer-stained lawn
 
Not the ego,
the embroidered façades
 
She got up just to spill her red wine.

The Third Tuesday



finishing the book
blank pages, an afterthought
silent appreciation over space
she smiled on the other side of the world
he smirked, remembering
a dirty moment with her on him

alone but for the squares on her wrist
reminder of human compassion (love)
forgetting about time,
when spider eats ant
they watch, as fascinated children
sipping fizzy water and drifting

chlorinated casualties
sun and shoulders, beaming down
textures and tones
a bicycle in the heat
riding the street past fatigue

morning gone, evening settled
selling melted malteasers
then laughing with another
it was a simple day,
sharing the green waves
ending up on a jetty
and the same cigarettes with which they began