The Assassination
Brief hours flicker over the room
like memories of the infirm - the winks of gold
scampering through the air, still and built
with absences -
and shot, with a rusty locket,
a frame curls, like sepia in leaves
and dust in throats, on the bed, heaving
reluctantly the breath
that feeds a love that never escaped lips,
that want;
lost in a growing space
of words now spent,
with the fingerprints on the inside
from the mirage of the outside, and
strangled radio signals, like clawing school yards,
rasp on the eyelashes
of the colour of the person fading away.
John Turner
Tue 12th Jan 2010 20:47
Larken-esque. Like something from High Windows.