Deborah

Do we think of others, while screaming down the phone, the cross we bear for mothers, pray for all of those, whose thoughts are blown, in forgotten summers' blue clothes, drums across a cornfield smothers, the dance we do alone , men flit like dung uncovered, we can only suppose, by water and lakeside pheromones, what they try to echo, our days filled with lovers, Guggenheim, Tate,Jazz trombones, throwing dice for trouble, our hands a signalled force, more than we ever know, a river runs its course, asks us what we know ?