Alchemisland

Her dainty fingers denture white venture flighty

Across a pricey Steinway’s elephantine phrases

The air tastes of careless lace, first editions

Spice laced, the rosy studio of Wilde, welcome seditions

The piper, the rats, the limehouse mist

At Sandyford, the chance she called last

I missed like a lanyarded drunkard his Saggart-ward train,

Alas the tides which argonauts ride

Are those which foam at my thighs

My pockets full of stones

My heart full of spidery vice.

The one loss I cannot sigh away or toss aside

Finding that I am an aside, a struckthrough line.

Suggestions of severed connection

That silence never failed to mention.