I wonder if you might hear
an answer, when you ask,
what kind of love is this ?
While I stand looking on
towards the carriage from
where you alight, to
undo the tale and ask for
a flame to lessen the dark.
But it’s not really words
that matter much anymore.
I would prefer brandy slurs
or legato shades of light
on sodden pavement, where
you tread with frailty
and thunder—arm in arm.
Where pagan syncopations
cry and turn, as though
time had distilled the frothy
gauze of Guinness with
a song of Glasgow kisses.
©️Orion Foote, 2022
Visions of Orion Poetry 