September 23, 2010

Two Poems


three floors above the street,
Nola sits naked
on a bench
with winter that coos into her ears
like rain

he mixes colours,
a tinge of blush in his cheeks,
to paint poinsettias –

I can only write of
the artist
whispering nothing but conscience
into the brush

but Nola will still sit on a bench
like a stalk of poinsettias
on her lips.


a poet visits the beauty parlour

the place is never crowded —

two customers
flipping magazines with glossy covers
blinds that let in rumours of light (and nothing more);

and the mirror
who muttered all her secrets
before she knew them


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