In Soho Square

I inhabit a world where everyone is a poet
Where trees and buildings are on equal terms
And none may inhibit either's privacy.

Adult Reading

(i)
One hot day
when the leaves were fully out
green blotting paper given
to soak up poison from the air
citrus-gathered, close
lint for pain,

I waited in the car
with a Listener, alone
and how the reviewer said
these are grown-up poems
to share things with
that know of hurt, when
the world has gone to bed...
at night: skimmed on

to light on images, quotations.
Later bought the slim, dark
volume to take with me
into days and nights
discovering your shade and light
against a white page -
a sanctuary of adult reading
or so it seemed.

(ii)
Years later
after the Reading at the Voicebox
I queued up round the long table
where you sat and finally
reaching you, said,"Hello!"
saw you look up and
for a moment feared those
perspicacious, alert brown eyes

and needn't have
"Nice to see ther're some men
around." Your joke
wry and inclusive, just for me

and you
as your pen wrote your name.

The Storm?

These stays are ample
for sail or for trim

How come loose and
flapping
adrift on the high seas?

Herbs lost
and pages water-logged

th'entire fragrant garden -
the man we touched.

At A Window

He drew beauty
all together
drew in
a great puzzle

Neptunian curator
of the new







Sea sprite elevator
jocular in phonetic mimicry

wise guy
sailor
of vision, creator
of 1000 poems.