Thursday, September 02, 2010


world glued to world
flexible cinema
and alternate endings

with rain machines
full gutters
people-wash philosophies

a discrete cafe
table in the corner
with centrepiece rose

a far place
far from the near
the streetlight and bus

the brush kiss
over starters
of calamari and rye bread

you know me
and I know you
all too well

but what the hell
this is September
and rain clings

like a phone number
to the sides
of our sentences

call me
ball me
stall me

as daylight leaks
like love from a wound
of rush-hour traffic

and we're caught
in its rainbow
of infinite colours

under this umbrella
of faded stars

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