You Are The Seam

Tears are the streams like the lines on the page
The seams that hold the melody, the music, together
Echos and bruises keeping the shadows with the light
Stretching and pulling explosions in the night
Fighting from the burrows, and tunnelling for escape
Means, ways and circumstance, the metaphors made you leave
But the seam of age has tied you to the past
Who are you, you are the poet, the seam who holds generations
The language of the new and old held at hostage- the cream of the gun
The cream of the crop? no the warning, the beautiful sun reflecting
And Danger is as danger does and the notes explode and die
The tears are the streams and seams and the rumour is the axle for the truth
But the day is a road and swamps are drying below abstract trees
Where faces of wild men are carved and they groan
Naked belly's rubbing against pine needles
Human transport, Human ankles in hand and the coming will go
Finding stray back hairs caught together with sap from trees
You are the line that concludes the poem
You are the coda, the last of the beasts to roam
The last of the waves to foam
But I, in my tame way will follow you, you from opening to closing hour,
The city gates are wrought with hands tough and thick like the iron
Hands that can still tenderly flick open fly buttons
And weigh the goods within the curtained walls
One finger trailing the fleshy seam
The seam that is the myth of life, the reason for life, the reason for living
The heat of the city gates that groan when opened and moan when closed
In the city there are no balloons in the sky
This city is not Lamoux, the lost city of Europe, this city is not yours, it has no border merely a seam
Beautiful and rocky, like a road covered in maple leaves in autumn
Who chose this road?
Lamoux where are you?
You and your zoo and muddy river banks, I found you for a year
I found the cello's and accents- not german, not french
The mythical language of Europe
The lines etched in my mind, the seams of Summer, the strings of a piano- all that remained in the club that had burnt
The rosemary lingers, upon your fingers, did you keep the keepsake?
No? Naked in the bath- ghosts making the water cold with their their pale hands soaking
I still think of you sitting, hair in your face, your tendrils leaning upon your cheek, a seam, that frames your profile
At night I think these thoughts
At night I trace the seam
At night I follow the patterns
At night I lie awake in this dream
At night I wrestle with the ghost
And I awaken smelling of Rosemary reading lines on the wall
'You are the line that concludes the poem...'