About Edna St. Vincent Millay.
This poet speaks and
Her words slice into me.
Slow and tender like
A silken thread, pulled
Taut against the soft skin
Of a peach. The pain is
Inflicted gently without
Malice. Washed by tears
Slow and salty. The wound
Cannot close once the words
Have entered. They probe and
Swell. Expanding inside
Those blood- red chambers
Until they become absorbed
Into the very fibres of my heart.
An Adrenalin Moment.
The canine dug deep.
Penetrated skin in a split second.
It left a small grinning mouth upon
the back of my hand. Blood welled.
Trickled like strawberry sauce down
the pale slope of a scoop of ice-cream.
I saw the gleam of tendon.
Showing like a slender white worm.
This unexpected view into the workings
of my hand was strange and fascinating.
I felt adrenalin ripple through me and pain
shot simultaneously to my fingertips
and elbow. I leapt back and told myself
I should not have tried to stroke that dog.
By The Beach-fire.
We sat on the beach.
Backs tucked into hollows.
Scooped out of the peaked dunes.
The fire we had built flickered
And drew our eyes into its depths.
Sparks escaped from resinous pine
And leapt like twisting fireflies
Into the approaching dark.
The end of the day trailed its skirts
Of pink and blue and mauve.
Then fell slowly, very slowly,
Over the dark horizon.
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