Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Blossom Falls

The blossom falls,
the people walk
through canopies of pink rain,
soft-touching against skin,
down cheeks, across blind eyes;

brick on brick on earth,
asphyxiating slabs of stone, a hard sheet
for the duvet of colour above it,
as their soles stamp upon the nothingness of it;

like the truth
of our evolution from that hairy unclothed ape,
like the tails of beach-wind
from off the adjacent sea whispering to your spine;

the grassy runners
stapled down in aesthetic squares dark-
light that could grow long to tease
their skin as they lie and roll unclothed absorbing

sun, that Vitamin D, preferably
miles from urbanity to better health,
but cotton and wool covers them,
the petals stick in pockets.

And they stare as I had stared at them,
looking with shame upon my naturalness,
but they don’t feel that pink rain,
soft-winded and swept against
my hairless skin.

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