Published on 17 June 2012
Standing on my balcony
I begin to wring a poem
From the sunset.
‘Each year, I swallow summer whole
Gulp it down
And each autumn, I begin to choke’
No, that’s no good, I say
It’s not perfect
‘I swallow summer whole
And let it swill there,
Filling me in the winter And each spring,
I find I am hungry again’
No, not perfect.
While smoke wraps around my fingers
Like the suns last caresses
Six swallows fly overhead
And I begin to laugh.
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