power and beauty
stone and steel.
rise above
mud and wood.
swarmed by
worker ants.
world without end.

wyn is a poet.

a visionary.
monkeys and tigers
stalk welsh hills
the
satanic mills
of his imagination.

he is the blake
of the a470.

did he once see
angels on peckham rye
too?

i expect he did, i expect.

we will not know
unless i ask him.

he will tell.

yet not when
his colleagues
are listening.

he may be shy.

balfour beatty.

sbm

***** windows open to frigid air,
hard wooden floors, cold black coffee,
mud caked on sneakers, filmy cobwebs lacing corners,
senescent Anne Beattie novels with yellowing pages,
stacks of mail, maybe if unopened will disappear,
dishes upon dishes, a pyramid toward the sky,
a dead Christmas tree,
no longer effervescent,
tinged grey,
incongruously picturesque.