| I didn’t see my mother.
I scribbled a note saying I’d left. There was the gnashing of teeth, And I saw the harbour, flight, No, not a plane, a boat. And wind Only when I arrived, and flames Were smouldering, yellow, N.Y. The streets as fast as brushstrokes, Stop, and a fast line back as if I cut the canvas, and a watery Line, the brush filled to the brim With lines, and the fleshy pink Of a puddle is dripping out of her. Published in South Africa by Fidelities. |
| ss |
| wdek |