A poem by Timothy Thornton
Put in a garden to waste the sight of them
away with the martyr’s ashes. To refuse
inevitably I am just asking you to come
clean. Still rent the cake you baked
your truth into asunder. Leave it, they said
check all too soon it’s that or nothing mate.
Lunch passed on a tray well dent, impress
to me the body blue and the spirit borrows
her shut eyes penitent, for this, for that.
I make that face too when I am close,
remember. Harder. All in all I’m asking
not too much am I. What this means
to say so this is it. No time up and left
bereft that ground and gorged the flowers.
Intercapillary Places (Events Series)