trapped in the stanza the rhythm the rhyme the
never ending run on line
and no one should.
Not you or you or he or she
you and me are a work in progress
endless re-writes with
fear, fatigue and expectation
filling the page and emptying it again
writing on a Kerouac roll.
Your name makes me want to dance.
I fear sometimes I haven’t earned
the right to feel romance or hope,
but penitence is lived in gentle breaths
and the kindnesses you bestow on others
that you have learnt from other lovers.
No one wants to live in a poem, but
Sometimes you are a thought under pressure,
a moment of filmic clarity
the clean made dirty
the dirty made clean
pacing the airport
Ready to fly.
eleanor j jackson 