The Cave

Standard

 

This poem first appeared in Gutter 3 (ed. Colin Begg and Adrian Searle)


Some say he was born down here,

that he’s been submerged since birth.

Perhaps because his skin is so white,

perhaps because his eyes are so large.

 

They say she gave birth behind the bar.

They say she wet the baby’s head with whisky.

Now his eyes carry rings,

now his stomach hides his belt.

 

He traces a cloth over the wood,

polishing so hard the varnish fades.

It could be driftwood, this dry slab,

washed up from some broken ship.

 

He looks from under leaden lids,

surveys a young man counting coppers;

he is lining them up on the table,

little lights to reel her in,

stars reflected in a black sea.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s