The resolution of snow
I stab at the dash key on my old Olivetti
and peer through the hemmed eyelids
of shame, stitched in red broken lines
There was this fuming search for a woman
she still holds her body a charm
knees nudge propriety apart
and build a chasm of triangular black
down which the disintegrating ashes
of dwarf-heart spume to drift in fascination
and seek time's charity for whatever fulmination
can be triggered by a world in a tram
that lives to lavish the walls all cave con and vex
with frailties and humbug:
a cying drunk's promise
a beaten dog's eye-white
or hunger boiled into the shape of a tongue
that stalks the places where warm nylon stretches
and lolls in a dream of condensation
contained by a system of blood soaked facts
that flare their nostrils and crawl over strategies
that inch their bravado to settle on lust
and resolve its landscape as snow does
Russell Forster
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