It was your eyes that sobered me: arctic
like the ice at the end of the world, a fox
staring down his hare across the tundra
of the crowded bar; tight shirts and shots
of cheap whisky mixed with slanders and lusts.
I don't think I smiled. I was in the bar
and then I was in the bar with you. Did we
dance, or chat? When you handed me lager I spied
iceflakes glint on your dew claw. I was
bounding through tundra, a London suburb
draped in white water, pack-ice in the streets.
Did we meet in the road? You goaded me
here, your arctic eyes reflecting curtains
of ghost-light, a god's disco crackling static
before our next dance, before we kiss.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Not sure about this one - a touch post-modernish. But it was something to do during my lunch hour: