Love is a poet’s omelette
hidden beneath trench coats
and full brim fedoras.
We’re going to get you
Out of here, all right?
I give myself to you
Nice to meet you… Again!
Are the voices louder to drown
Out the internal monologue
Enough of this silly posturing
I wanted it to be smoothed down…
I reversed my anger into the space
I’m tired of asking why It
stinks of oil here.
A pointless pen.
They used to use black slugs
As carriage wheel lube.
There is an eyelash somewhere
that carries a wish…
Unhand me, you oaf!
Old Books, new poems and J not I,
Weaving Kayaks, Mountains, trees
and histories into a fabric of words!
July’s poem should have
been called Helen High-water…