The winter here is proper,
not like the weak attempts
of childhood.
I put on one of my father's old records,
and sinkdrown
into the swirl
of old memories -
the scent of oil and wood
his workshop
the musicdrone of cicada's
(that signaled the arrival of hot summer sweat and slick)
the scent of musk mixed with coffee grinds
and bodyperfume made sick with wine.
Old roofs
in the distance -
redwashed and orange
by the blood of a dying sun,
trickle blue smoke
from the mouth of an ancient-
Baal of cold nights
Suburban Moloch.
Hands are turned palecold.
Dove's once ,
dexterous fish now -
white and roasting
on the hot whisper
from a cup of coffee,
sometimes they
(mechanically or artfully)
invoke the means
to my own blue trickle.
A time machine
to that junkyard of stolen moments
we christen "memory".
Yet the sun still bleeds
and the sky is cauterised
by it's sacrifice.