Unsaid

Death is best left
unsaid,
unless, by dead, you meant
my last stiff whisper, cold-
kissed by your lips of stone;
we two old friends who part …

There was an art,
they say,
they hint (vague by intent,
in muffled tones to hold
your ears), in making known
each to each what each thought …

Love is best sought
in Spring,
Not now with the sap spent;
supposing I had told
you, anyway; my own
mute love still had no breath.

 

 

 

 

Copyright: Richard Fox 1970
All rights reserved

Affair

 

Hallo.

I said good morning in the rain

to you last week. You smiled again

as though the thing was still there. But

the wind wept at my shoulder, smut

from smog and memory clouded round

and our slow truth, our jailed joy, frowned

through the iron rods of rain. It’s

strange to see you now, with his bits

of gold and stone, like a lost shrine

with no priest: but when you were mine,

you watched me worship; which is why

last week, I prayed good morning, dry

inside the shelter of your smile.

 

Hallo again. Please stay here for a while …

 

 

 

Copyright: Richard Fox 1970
All rights reserved