Two new poems from Duncan Jones
Ex Forces
Wipe that face all you like
Some other dew halos it
Wordlets glint and slide and go
Sweat in sheets reeks darkening
Everyone else but
Mould on the styrene ceiling flowers
(of old)
Pats at the boy’s chest feeling
For fissures, strides
On, front eyed, unanywhere
Lift till the marker snaps again again
Breakfast
There’s a glare
on the table
from the beast Sun
that makes you
difficult to see
Blue flowers do wither
on the stem
to lightlessness
Your hand is small
I won’t stay
to hold it.
Don’t say
what you were going to say
this morning says
