A bevy of doves, all leaden and greased

From the craftsman's hands to the murkdrab bequeathed

Cried coo, did the dule, of the duel of two men

Then soared, silent roared

and drowned in the Thames.

#poetry #poems #typeface

I recognise myself in pages,

A prison, made of other people's pages:

A fig tree

A New York Street

An unburdening of self into the sea.

I've bound myself in reams

Paper, thin under folded crease, keeps the words in – just.

But a buttress of words soon buckles and thrusts

as a cobra – punch drunk – grasps the been*.

* been is another word for 'pungi', an Indian folk instrument made from a dried bottle gourd. The kind you might expect to see a snake charmer play to hypnotise a cobra.