Wednesday, April 16, 2008

The Waiting

I’ve born a thousand careful words
I’ve held in hand your dogged chin
And listened for a risk
And hurried through the endless fits
Through slits of eyes
And gapes of lips
It came in choppy bits.

As time has written down our words
Your figments barely peeking in
That fought for yesterdays
And calmly pushed us through the dim
With slabs of palm
And steady hips
Bridged with writing over them.

When under plaster skies a lamp
Was burning blaring yellow white
It all became so final
We reached to pull the curtain down
It stuck half-way
And light blazed out
Leaving you staring at the ground.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2008

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