Street Typist
         Busker



I heard a metronome

                 on the street

a sort of Morse

          or fingered Braille

that stayed in time

      with my tapping feet

songs are but

     poems with earrings

it’s with keys

                     they sing





For Krishan Coupland


27/6/2022

~
Desert pond,
       idle sun.

Salt, shadow,
       and the revealing light of midday.

She traipses from
the safety of the car
        to the danger at the water's edge.

One hand shielding her eyes,
the other,
        her over-exposures.

Discomfited by a lack
         of self-confidence.

Loving the water,
         hating her thighs.
~

the stream is a pretty
mirror, the sky, sweet
sister to the moon,
slumbers in her
arbour where roses
flower mightily, in
love with the night
and the cloud.

There is an arrow, locked away
somewhere, silenced
My heart has felt it, its caress
True consolation of one's life
That arrow, buzzing vibrato
after so many windows of my soul,
will break your chest, will
strike you dead with no notice.

~
A mix of
Startoucher
And Venus in furs

A minor astronomical event
Between luminous beings

Timean sparkles
Fast atoms escape

And in their wake
Baby satellites to bear
~