Too Cold The Clientele's Philosophy

too cold the clientele's philosophy

of creases blushing shy through paper-fold.

this room is cold enough to guess an age

to tap the finest china, watch it crawl

back to where it came before the glass

reflected light from the wrong side of a twist.

 

all tables laid and labeled as above.

it is cold enough to snow now the prayers have gone.

the shy retreat, the brave stand still

by his own will, the penny-black

laced discreet where the timber's cut and thrive.

the lonesome bell rings true anxiety.

 

there is money somewhere near where the fingers smile.

point-to-point. one heavy horse. the grip of love's rapport.

neither shade of pink will share a touch or two

white maggots soul of flesh life cannot charm.

it is here among the strangers with my feed

perched as parakeet with a flower in my ear.

 

is there safety here? this witchhunt for an oar?

I have grown to lean to amble pleasantly.

too cold the cliontele's philosophy.

still I wait until I know it is safe to run;