Beauty is not flowers, given by a lover.
Nor is it meadows and birdsong.
And definitely not the pantomime of Weddings, with their
Hyperbolic declarations and parodies of tailoring on
Bodies too well-fed to house them.
Instead, it is the soft curl of cigarette smoke, blue
And graceful against the grime of a steamed window.
Or in a poky kitchen, the remains of our meal crusting on
Our plates, too absorbed were we in conversation
To even remember the taste.
It is the chuntered breath, just after,
When we are both trying to ignore how bad
We smell, and getting slightly annoyed that our heartbeats are out of sync
And thinking how nice a drink or a shower would be.
It is seagulls beside a river, in a military line, with
White trails of ****, Jackson Pollocking down the wall
On which they stood, and how they all took flight one by one
Like dominoes as I approached.
It is certainly not sunsets. After all, they occur every day
And can be captured in a photogaph. It’s the accompanying silence
That makes sunsets special, and that is better found in libraries anyway.
It is somehow more impressive to silence human tongues than watch
The suns tired routine once again.
On a bus full of rowdy, starched schoolboys with filmy faces,
Posturing about experience, Beauty is the one boy reading.
Beauty is not safety. It is daring and bold. Or perhaps it is quiet and
Trying to be ignored, I don’t know. Perhaps we shouldn’t care a jot.
Beauty is that thing that should be ugly,
But is not.
