Bare skin on dampened green,
arms pendent and the heavy,
near-sighted swing
of dull metal in the pit.
As I loosely ready myself
for another miss,
you call me an anarchist -
the word rouses
me, and I try it on,
gingerly checking
for fit, style and colour.
And yet
I haven't had the time -
or the ruthless abandon -
to learn and befriend it,
to humour and then
ignore it.
No, I haven't had
the time - something I know
we both measure
in cups and baking spoons -
brash spoons sound
anxiety and precision,
or the death-knell clang
of hollowed metal on sand.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
Bare skin on dampened green,
arms pendent and the heavy,
near-sighted swing
of dull metal in the pit.
As I loosely ready myself
for another miss,
you call me an anarchist -
the word rouses
me, and I try it on,
gingerly checking
for fit, style and colour.
And yet
I haven't had the time -
or the ruthless abandon -
to learn and befriend it,
to humour and then
ignore it.
No, I haven't had
the time - something I know
we both measure
in cups and baking spoons -
brash spoons sound
anxiety and precision,
or the death-knell clang
of hollowed metal on sand.
