improbable romance 17

 

you rammed your fingers down my throat

and dragged out a map of England

which, spread before us glistening,

revealed elvin fires, a ruined abbey

and Heathrow

 

the parasite of my future thus extirpated

you turned your attention below

one hand worked my bandolier

the other poured

heavy guitars

 

pissed psalmist, daubing the skies

with red before sunrise

you're stuck in a circle of days

you should be on fire

burning DNA, calm and sequestered

 

then

at the next election

when your white smoke rises

the weight of the world

will slip from your shoulders again