from March, the month of winds

 

look out of the wage, window,
a long track south, strange like
a pillow of time hit you in the mouth once.

Christine said to me: what happens on earth
echoes through the cosmos. we are not separate.
long live the willow trees, long live the concrete,

and most of all, we must be
cunning. I can’t stop moving on, but getting
stuck by this. in, love, I’m falling

 

 

touch reminds love to come out and through.
I hold the unscored sand of you, also through
socks the encore of arousal toes hold

and if it must, you mouth, be trauma
touch reminds love to come out and through
the pencil-coloured nape hair writing

a new caress on the worn-out seat
that everyone forgot to kiss on the way to the fuck
touch reminds love to come out and through

 

 

invent a dream in which you appear as a poet. kinds of
catastrophe are pre-sleep mycelium before sleep
ends and the whiteness and greyness

and just flat-out slapped insult of waking
becomes me. & whatever I haven’t to do casts off
a coat a stitch a wearing what I even

can’t get out of. because this in habit
is my fortress. & this dress is invented, just
forced through with all the words’ rightness

 

 

the last day. delete all, no culture
no Messenger, no facts. all the paintings’ names
will disappear. who is this man

with holes in his hands? [redacted] Descends
from the Sky in an Egg. No reason for this, none
for the season and the calendar’s allfucked

22 degree winterday, you are not
supposed to be wearing what are they called –
flip-flops. then thick socks. then frost.

 

 

Gloria Dawson lives in Glasgow. A poem series ‘circlusion’ (2018) is available from Zarf Editions. Other work can be found in para.text, Zarf, Datableed, Poetry Review, Front Horse, The Literateur. Gloria’s next poems will be sunflowers and flavoured kombuchas.