who plucks out a rose for the laugh?
Well I never!
Can I forgive the mother who shouts at a child?
Well I never did!
Can I forgive a girl who leads-on a boy?
You don’t say!
Can I forgive a boy who leads-on a girl?
Can you forgive the surgeon who looks in the eyes
of the man in the bath with his burns
and the doctor, in sighing, shakes slowly his head
not knowing the nurses had worked up some hope
and who turn on the man with a tongue-lash to re-kindle fire
into love, and then dress down the doc with their words?
- crystal as my wineglass
in – and out – ward – light,
turning every coloured heart
- that would be a dream
with crimson swirls of wine,
of bubbling champagne,
of water purer – free from source,
empty, with no name;
no Will, no talk, no twaddle,
no arse about to waddle,
no mind cavorting on its pole,
no fear of death or growing old
and no associations, spun or leapt,
patient, still, and longing – and longing – longing
Hand me Down