October 10th. 2014. (Revised).

In this pale October sunlight
I find myself almost blind.

Diverse townscapes merging into sameness,
A blur of glass and concrete
Vanishing
Like a smog tarnished dream.
Nothing original sacred,
Allowed to remain
As it was
Before this strange disintegration.
Once pristine contours
Half rubbed out, smoky,
Their subtleties ironed into a flatness
That ice cannot emulate.

Blue sky fades like old embroidery
Exposed to too much brightness
On a Monday afternoon.
November is knocking on the door
With a gloved fist,
A cough,
A coarse laugh,
Cigarette breath blown in through the air vents
Choking the ventricles.
My heart stops for a moment
And then resumes
Fitfully
To a sombre music.
Your voice heard down the answer phone
Reinstates the fallacies of hope.

When a student
I would like to sit at home
Reading Keats and Shakespeare
Half way through the night;
Red Bird on the turntable
Introduced the clear cut modern
To my careful listening;
This jazz and poetry rip-roaring through my mind
Like a tonic.
In those days I had no fear of death,
Only this fear of your extended absence.

Now I sit and write from dawn to dusk
Poems that paraphrase a dislocated existence.
Please look me up tomorrow; please keep your long term promise,
So that I can pull these torn threads back together.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 10th. - 11th. - 12th. 2014.
July 22nd. 2015.