Tired and uncompleted you’ve spilled your day
upon my scatter of papers and wine.
Your words are bitter, heavy, and clang and
Rattle around my cavernous, half-formed thoughts of
Stones and waves and harbour-lit, aching wants.
So easy in this solemn gloom of distance,
To cast the joy of each waked morning on
Worry’s feint, and stumble on the rough-cut path
Of September evenings and the incoherence
Of an indomitable love’s expression.
YOU ARE READING
A Wrong Turn
PoetryA collection of poems that chart a relationship from its genesis to its failure and beyond.
