Two World Trade


back in the mist of some June morning
by your jade tree on a futon with a forest sheet
we called it coming over, never
dabbling in tactile futures, never
writing naked puts, and never
optioning the April windfall
when your heelstrike on the pink terrazzo
pleated skirts and British wit
all so became the glass and steel
Minoru might have inked you
half turned, gazing from this window
with me rapt at how your lips were parting
silhouetted by the city, to say
“Rain is like a phone call from the sea.”

4 responses to this post.

  1. Posted by sofieonecrow on February 16, 2014 at 2:42 pm

    Your words have painted a vivid scene.

    Have you published any of your poetry, other than here?


    • A three copy run entitled “A Runnel of Tripe” ….stapled up at home, possibly typed individually rather than xeroxed. Can’t recall/ Long ago. Glad this one reached you.


  2. Pleat: a fold made by doubling material over on itself and stitching or pressing it in place. Sounds punitive. If I had to choose I’d go for pressing. I worry about its juxtaposition with British wit, though not as much as if you’d written English wit. Memo to diary: stay the Hell out of upstate NY.


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