Excavation of the Lura (a poem)

A pair of words, and off I go:

I believe the liar
and the flower
their smoky scents delivered on undetectable currents
to rage the capsized boat
stony-faced under fountains grey
ley lines scribbled across its bow

I am awaiting you

She hypnotises me, eyes wide open
threads dangling from the hem of her dress

My transfixion is her power and my sorrow
one knows it cannot be any other way
one knows it must be different this time

Both draw cards

I am awaiting you

The boat decomposes in the absence of water
thirst is an anxious demon
frightened by the gator’s teeth

On a balcony somewhere
the flower grows taller

The nail punctures skin
but fails to draw blood

I am awaiting you

She is backlit by the sun through the open window
I invent acrobatics to make sense of the shape

Should I believe the liar
when she says she’s coming
or arrive late anyway?

She won’t be impressed by the flower

I am awaiting you

Radio crackles and a voice slightly behind
lull me into Sunday

I remember the smell of trash barrel burning
on a weekend in 1969

I have never been closer—or farther away

I am awaiting you

I have given up on the boat
I’ve never much liked the smell of the ocean

They say the water is cold anyway

I believe the liar
and the flower

Hypnotised, eyes closed
I am awaiting you

(17 November 2019)



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