Dwindling Black Violas by Jacqui Corcoran
There is no roof enough high
for these fistfuls of lost breaths.
Black velvet burial suits,
yellow trapped mouths in violet:
small freedoms cut short - unlived.
The city bleeds on: grey veins,
like that of a monster made
in pursuit of its own head.
And I sprinkle them all here:
soft petals of everything,
that had a hope but could not.
They merge like distance to light:
flicker midway, disappear,
land in gutters and puddles.
Maybe to drift to the canal,
more likely to the sewer.
Black threads in patchwork:
merely binding, never squared.
jacqui corcoran © 2011
