I hope you don't mind but I like to play with prose to see how it might work in the form of a poem. Here's what I came up with after selecting words from your wonderful piece:
Today, in London
where rain drives home melancholy, it's possible
to make amends
for a life of deceit. After watching Howard's End,
I realize it is real,
that elegant handwringing over the homeless, the addicted,
the dreams that come in fast whispers.
Today, the perfect cold of English rain on skin
will not let me forget the promise
of my fear, how it made a stranger
of the street where we ran our soundtrack to ground, sweaty
young palms thrilling just enough in the dark, behind the screen,
to numb the part of our landscape we couldn't reach by phone.
Death is unmistakable,
and the ghost of you, maybe shooting meth to forget
Comments
I hope you don't mind but I like to play with prose to see how it might work in the form of a poem. Here's what I came up with after selecting words from your wonderful piece:
Today, in London
where rain drives home
melancholy, it's possible
to make amends
for a life of deceit.
After watching Howard's End,
I realize it is real,
that elegant handwringing over
the homeless, the addicted,
the dreams that come in
fast whispers.
Today, the perfect cold of English
rain on skin
will not let me forget
the promise
of my fear, how it made a stranger
of the street where we ran
our soundtrack to ground, sweaty
young palms thrilling just enough
in the dark, behind the screen,
to numb the part of our landscape
we couldn't reach by phone.
Death is unmistakable,
and the ghost of you, maybe shooting
meth to forget
the HIV shame, maybe
picking a wound swallowed
in pride,
pulls me near, pushes me
away.