living in the past,
she chases her ghost relationship
placing her warm hands
on the cold figure of his work
she seeks the impossible
from deaf gods:
could she work this cold stone into flesh?
could she make the hands grasp her waist?
the sculptor's ex-lover bears the sweetest fruit,
but fruits, untouched, will always wither in neglect.
her memory fades but a little
with each year passing
she finds the sweetest food
to fill her bitter stomach
but the bitterness still shows in her sad mouth
and between her lips unkissed
lonely nights in her cold bed
take her back to a relationship full with ripeness
but now her days are filled with moaning,
moans as empty as her womb.
This October I am unemployed,
a little older,
another day of rain...
Wet pigeons huddle on the roof where I live,
they shift uneasily behind chimney pots,
seeking shelter from the Winds of the Fens.
Disturbed.
Old soot breaks loose,
Tumbles onto the hearth nearby.