The Dragon

Queen Anne’s

Grenade now coming up

Over the tarmac,

Switched off like the moon.

Divining your faith I

Raise feet, hands –


Libations to praise all this,

An ablution for the light, bright

Dividing of time and mind.

Fear is grenadine, dripped

Down your moon-white spine

Finding debt, doubt; my overtaxed


Lover paid at the wrong time.

Useless unity! Raising the wages

Of sin to share a honeymoon

With you. Marianne shrieks

In the high street, enraged

And skydiving visions


Deriving John from

The spots of truth – the cover

Of night tends to derange

The praise of a morning after.

Epiphany’s pavement, another  

Winter gone in these moonless,


Monologued days

Of dusk, driving

My hands into yours;

Hours of pleasure. Covertly

Erased explosions –

The true grenade  


These angered words,

Unwaning every moon,

Every star. Raising Cain

Between the lines,

Or the zest some boy recovered

In the anagrams of memory,


In the dragon of the soul.


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