Thursday, June 29, 2006


Another draft of another poem. I can't be arsed to offer up crits of other people's poems at the moment, so this one - formerly Love Poem #11 - isn't being workshopped anywhere. Instead, I'm relying on my Inner Critters to tell me the poem's pretty much roasted to perfection:


It's strange how our fingers
interweave when we cross roads,
shop for carrots, newspapers,
cartons of milk. Sometimes

I'll fold my palm around
your knuckles to keep them
warm while we wait for the bus,
or walk to town. Sometimes

you knuckle my hand away: decisions
are shared in this space, we both
must agree to risk the spits
of strangers, haters, sometimes.

But please do feel free to let me know if you disagree with my ICs. They're not always as reliable as they like to make out ...

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