Poem in Which Fashion Is a Vacuum
Vanta Black, fifties chanteuse,
was a killer in her little black dress.
Most girls wore feathers, or silk of chartreuse,
but she simply sucked out the light to impress.
Poem in Which My Lover and I Walk Along a Rain-drenched Pavement
Two owls meet in the rain. It is
too wet for them to woo, despite
their carapace of barbicules.
Thus they wait, prey to amazement.
This calamus of parasol
will do for us – beneath its vane
we shelter as we promenade
along the black and yellow path.
Your feet point one way – I look the other,
into water. You turn your head
and stare and blink. I am still here.
Off our roofed bubble the droplets fall.