Friday, April 18, 2014

Continental drift


All for the best I suppose,
South America stealing
away in the chill before dawn
leaving not so much as a note.
Africa gasping awake
spooning a fragrant twist of sheet
slapping a tattoo for his glasses
in the half-light, a flattened pack of       
          French cigarettes. 
No getting round it her slender horn 
was gone, this time for keeps 
so he uncased his own
bell-snug in a velvety mold of   
Indian Ocean blue
and blew jackknifed
in the window on the alley
a slow blues for
          North America, stepping
out for air one night, closing
the door on a smitten  
          Eurasia, stinging
her with a wink and blown kiss.


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