Pangaea
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
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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