It is not
thrift prevents my
gushing hot suds over you. Nor
you would be
embarrassed. It is that
soap would rot your skin, hot water
melt your bones. You are
allergic to warmth and fragrance. I maintain
a tepid bath for you, free from any taint of
sweetness. And that
is love even though it
I know I
should love you for what you
are. But I
hate what you are. I love
who you were, and what you
might have been. I run your baths for
duty’s sake; and for
pity’s sake. And that is
love even though it feels like
Your dark eyes and bright soul hold tender resolution.
The tree outside my window powerful and delicate.
Notes trip and tumble a sweet green dance,
Intricate, insistent stamp – gold shimmers sensuous leaves.
Soon this tree will flame with your passion
But today it reflects a greyer sky.
From depths a magpie bursts. A pigeon swoops.
They pass like cars at a junction – indifferent.
Should life narrow to the maple tree and Claude,
I still will have it all.
The angle of depression
From a moving reference point.
Casting out nines at a tangent,
Beta minus one.
A lateral area of ambiguous triangles,
A transitive relation,
The significant figure
A negative quality.
The calculation of moments,
A null set,
The continuous probability of minus one.
FOCUSING ON DETAIL
SEEKING THE TRUTH
MISSING THE TRUTH
DISTORTING THE TRUTH
A MAGNIFYING GLASS
I am the watcher,
The looker-on at life.
I keep to a corner
And, in my mind’s eye,
Measure the colours in the clouds,
Their rose and pink and silver;
Their rolling folds in shades of grey.
I count waves as they reach the shore,
Time the shadows’ shift from west to east,
Then track each young girl’s path
From hope to grief.
When busy people say I have not lived,
I sigh to think of all that they have missed.