Round Trip

I tell you this, you tell me that.
We order a cream tea, I watch your hand
reach for the bowl and hesitate,
as if what’s sweet might turn to sand.

I tell you in exotic banter
of a poem where flowers close.
Blossoms, I tell you, in deep winter
bloom, undaunted, out of loss.

The stops like stars ignite the tracks.
You touch my hair as if it’s smoke
reflected in the window backwards
and the day that’s come and gone.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: