Anaphora

 

And the inmates get beaten on Sundays

and the altar boys make up their beds

and the booze that laid waste to their manners

and the coke that raised cain in their heads

 

and the girls who came and saw trouble

and the trouble that came as they said

and the sack that they left in the stairwell

and the letter they found on the bed

 

and the life that you try not to think of

and the mail that you never picked up

and the hushed conversations about you

and your neighbours become so abrupt

 

and I wonder how they can find respite

and I picture them sleeping in bed

and they rest like the children of Christians

and they reek like the old and the dead

 

and the forests are mustering commons

and the waters are gathering strength

and the bikers are smiling and waving

and the snake hisses down past its length

 

and trouble is present but falters

and staggering, falls in the shit

and goodness is drunken and stumbling

and kicks trouble's face back in it

 

and the boxers are singing and crying

and the nuns are all dancing in line

and the buses are backed up for miles

and your heart is a closed diamond mine.

 

 

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Garden sketch

 

(whispered)

 

herbs sage rosemary basil

overgrown mint strangles

 

but we love it anyway

brave hollyhock

 

lost marigolds

ring the birdbath

 

lemon balm 

a stoned cat

 

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penny

 

                    gleam 

 

 

in spring

 

 

                                  puddle.

 

 

G Disley