POEM 1

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CHRISTOPHER

Oh, Christopher, believe me, I’m with you;

it’s hard being ordinary, with a surfeit

of feeling that won’t elegantly form itself.

Inadequacy of thought, of sensibility

is a grave handicap in this writing life

we have chosen. Every day the same:

stumbling in the alleys looking for a gift

out of there, lost again in a dark city.

 

I understand why you chose killing -

it can be done like fixing up a shelf.

There was a tendency in you to stand

back and admire your deft handiwork.

Like the bodies were stories in long grass -

that first unbelievable paragraph.

Roz Goddard ©2020 

Thanks to Jean Atkin for the glorious Shropshire tree image.