Brad Pitt At Cannes
(after Robert Browning's "Parting At Morning")
By the subservient sand-scoop
Rough water pounces.
A long-focus lens claims the dune's VIP
Perpendicular celestial poles for him,
Upchuck of a glitter of stars for me.
(after Peter Porter's "Ghosts")
On a towel
Slippy tight-spots, water.
Afterwards it reminds me of tears.
A daughter-in-law curls
Over a swing mirror, I see
A plucky eye,
Than all the signallings
In the room. She thinks of a man
With a head of black corkscrews,
I think of school, dispelling myself
In drips of pimply glass.
Lashes unstuck, a pinching
Of brow hair. I love these female rituals.
Something like life is glimmering.
Bobby whoops, Patch barks,
A minute slips.
Dad softens Shreddies.
An innocent jiggle of hand
Bumps dead the cutlery drawer.
Today she'll clock-off work,
Never coming back
Causing a sore-skin plague
On blue moons.