BARBARA SINEAD SMITH
THE WAR BETWEEN LOVE AND HATE
Tonight just doesn't make sense
I have tried to listen carefully
To mangled truths. I'm tuning in
To my own warped wavelength
Once again. And you have tried too
Patience with an untried phrase:
A dead-reckoning is what you prefer.
We are tired now of trying and
So the conversation begins
For real. I tell you moribund tales
And you laugh: "That can never be
As long as you are here with me."
You say. But still I am unconvinced
By darkness and the smell of summer
Turning in the wake of our betrothal.
OF BLACK BIN-BAGS
You are the infinite shape
Of zero, filling the cracks
Of a path I've forgotten.
You are sandy worm-casts
On an outgoing tide, marred
By salted stretch marks
You are sweeps of sound
Disturbing my slumber:
Moths, flies and daddy longlegs.
You are a yawn and
An arching, a swept eyebrow -
Stray haired, unplucked.
I have fallen into tomorrow:
I am the consort of
A wasp-lined nest.
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