My life is naught but
hollowed laughter;
some canned sound of paltry humour,
calling, calling to ‘amuse us’.

My language is naught but
borrowed idioms;
no thought laid anew, nor words
that twist so unexpectedly.

Some patient of the modern world,
my tongue speaks directly,
some awful diatribe of malformed poetry,
of confessions laid in pixels,
not pressed onto the heart of the page.

I’m calling, calling ‘hold me’,
‘hold me in your palms,
as you read my thought’s patterns,
and I, your lifelines. In print,
I shall discover your fortunes,

run my index over the ball of your thumb,
and massage into you my touch.
My touch upon your cheek,
to catch your tears,
to capture those moments

you have stared in awe upon
the fogged and pastured British fields,
the blink of the crested wave over the shore,
and all memories not locked in time.’