Poems

A Lost Button

The front of the shop appears pale/dim/dull this morning
The passers by are going far from the coloured dresses
The mirrors are arranged/are lined up/line up on the pavement awaiting faces
No faces furnish/cover/spread out in the passageways/alleys yet
Slumber/somnolence invades the sticky palms of the passers by
On its/his own a single shirt
Appears on the path gaping a mouth to the distance [perhaps ie wide open]
Which thorn threw you in the path of the mirrors? [bold type as in original]
The morning rises up from eyelids heavy with those who revolve/wander around nothing
On its/his own he/it who knows their face
On its/his own
And on their own they ladle/scoop the coming enjoyment/deliciousness from the details of the haggling/bargaining
It/he drowns in the anticipation ??? [laatin] he did not know the value of a thing
It/he did not know how to suck/soak up/lap up the lust/lewdness/desire from a lost button
In the half hidden behind the number written/recorded/registered in the distant void
He fumbles for/gropes for/feels the button itself and lets out his sighs
When her hand crossed the glass front and she discovered its absence
The images of the passers by vanished/dwindled in the gloom/darkness of her fresh/tender absence/disappearance
She [is] the freshness always the secret of the disappearing/falling/disintegrating blaze/glitter in the glass front.

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Comments (1)

Naomi Foyle

What a phenomenal statement about women’s sexuality. So witty and subtle and passionate - a female Gazan John Donne!

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