
- If these words are glass
- then they might be looked through
- as a slide in a microscope,
surprised at its own capacity
to bear a piece of life
under the smothering touch of the slip.
What a twist
for the kiss of death
to be made of slips and slides,
or is it slides and slips?
And what role do you play,
reading as you do
through the glass lens,
sharpening it, your gaze, moving
closer and closer,
pursuing an intimacy that
will only preclude,
and will articulate its refusal
in body-coloured blurs
that are too close?
Categories: Resident Poet