Richard Denim

A Swan Song
 

          for Det. Vogelsang

 
at night you take my hand
as a bottle takes the mouse by the head
thoughts bleeding out
a thrashing mind: the Acacia pycnantha
of time’s vague guise.

Oh what it is to feel! or was
when walking in Hyde Park that night
your shirt looser than my arse
after you bent me over
Archibald’s fountain and sung:

‘Black swan, don’t trespass
through this man’s barbed wire heart!’

with no intention bar the retention
of candor, no matter your memory
be chaos, torn always, blushing,
embarrassed, ‘never tell to anyone
of anything’, and I didn’t ‘til now.

For poetry can reach the highest
form of morality my lovely liebling
mein schatz
– sing like the bird you are
there is no depravation
to be found in a park, a poem,

your pulsating Raise.

 

 

 

 

Richard Denim

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