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STUART COOKE

               Stolen Archivist

Poetry won’t just

come out; it sticks

and you need to prise it gently

from skin

 

as if you were rain falling

on withering rock

as if you were the stolen archivist

trapped in tides of submerge and evaluate

- articulate –

the fat crop

of submission

 

This is to say, It’s wonderful

that I love you, and to hear

in response, ______ - that’s

nothing, that’s infinite

greed

consuming and I’ve lost. The sun,

the one sustaining, it’s a metaphor

for consumption

and the hand opens, fingers

rain out.

I put them deep into alliteration

 

and death is a translation

of the forgotten word. A heart beats

against a bony cage: we have – wait

for it –

a cardiac arrest.

If this is pursuit then

please, I don’t need time for the past.