You haven’t turned up. The buffer zoneof anticipation already ruined.
I keep my fingers steady on the stems
my lips serene, breath behind voice, eyes fringed
with the twinkling antonyms of forlorn
just on the off chance that you’ll come.
Faces have poked around, come and gone,
a thousand pairs of feet filed past, inch
by inch, but yours weren’t amongst them.
I draw my self around myself, alone
like the eye wraps itself in stormy winds
and unruffled, calmly carries on;
like the foetus curls into its amnion;
and the wound wreathes the pain into poems.