Monday, 30 June 2008

Bluebeard

Cool space. As soon as achieved
assaults redouble, and again.
Bluebeard, his smug key thigh-hanging.

The tide comes in, leaves beach bare,
when out should be in, when in, out;
gull's eye gleams from climbless roost.

The figures come and pass the window.
Seagreen shutters the house fold-blind;
inside what half-heard laughter means?

A dim hall obscures mysteries,
bulbs have been torn from sockets,
the lamp-click in dark could be teeth.

Cool space is a pinnacle rising out of hell.
It is not found in womb or casket.
There must be air to stretch in.

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