down to mute subdued smoky hued
rough thumbprints of colour, crude
strokes painted quick on windscreens
melting glass and chrome, new born greens
slapping their arms then flinging them wide
welcoming a rowdy day outside
curtailed rays reflected in your crystal mind
I’ve listened for but still can’t find
the resonance of your voice in the thread
but it echoes round in the dome of my head
in mocking whisper mode quickly cut off
by other noises of pettiness that go on non-stop.
to be stopped by red lights at the train lines
crowded level crossing, screaming signs -
danger, don’t walk. Don’t allow yourself to be lost
between parallel silver tracks. Not to be crossed
on foot. A movement of air disguised as a breeze
precedes the train’s, and most other, entries.
on foot? I’ve strained to listen but can’t hear
the slow slap of your sole anywhere near
though some bootprints mark the mud lane
strewn with the debris of mundane
leaves, of days and nights; withered, squashed
by the invisible thread of the car exhaust.
a few bars of steel keep traffic paused
on lanes that fail to hide their mud with asphalt
tyres and hearts sink a little. This halt
hasn’t been taken into account, a waste, wasted
time segments. torn oranges trailed by another thread
of black ants, unspoken words that endlessly crawl
round and round the dome and spiralling wall.
that froth in the veins of lanes and mud
unravelling spools of words, unheard
useless noise brimming over the rainsounds
have you altogether abandoned the grounds?
How then does the chocolate darkness of your voice
still drop over domes and walls and all petty noise.
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