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StrandsEarth has not anything to show more fair:
wispy, transparent white robeor maybe:
draped over August Sunday morning reclined, sleeping
soft-nippled, cream-breasted nymph with auburn hair
just out of a Bouguereau landscape,
autumn mid-afternoon dusk, windy, dark-clouded dayor almost as likely:
entwined in and out of the arms of new lust [raven hair]
with a best friend couple [sex fiends]
flying new stunt kite by the paper clip in Vanier Park
anticipating Thai dinner
and Pink Floyd later on the CD in front of the fireplace,
winter Thursday nightbut really:
unlicensed jazz club
$2 cover
hot apple cider
exposed brick walls [chill retaining]
in Gastown building
bench with too thin cushion
wobbly old wooden table
saucer with taper shedding surprisingly rich heat
saucy, glib, stingingly passionate history major
in tight denim, no coat, blue sweater and tightly wrapped scarf
hands cupping mug
crushed beside me to conserve body heat
four eyes closed [Thelonious Monk interpretation, see]
and my finger running up and down the underside of the jeans seam
on the outside of her furthest thigh
striking goose bumps on her inner wrists,
following spring misting[Context: Writers Group, January 10, 2002. Exercise: someone else picks for you the first line of a poem on a randomly opened page of an anthology of English literature and the last line from another poem on another random page; you then fill in the middle. My first line: "Earth has not anything to show more fair," my last line: "the rose hath her kiss."]
as clouds flee
girl with the bouncing blonde bangs
mock-hiding behind nine foot tall rose bushes
in gardens in old Queen Elizabeth quarry,
as my reach arrives at her cheek
the rose hath her kiss.
Copyright 2002, Stephen Buckley
01.10.02, 01.27.02
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Rumsfeld
and The Grinch?
Separated
at Birth?
