I saw you last on a bookshelf
Jammed between a greasy cookbook
And a peeling novella in serif so small
That malice was its only purpose
You had not been opened
But passed on, passed over, left
Half asleep, half awake
A trance of in breaths…
There was a lamp and its tender spectral gleam
The sharp tang of the coldest night
The old game of finding words
Some magic utterance –
I would’st I did not care
That even poems weep.
Veronica Aldous 2017 all rights reserved
Picture shows my book Moon Cinema edited by Bart Wolffe 1952-2016.