New blood on the terraces, captions in black against pickpocket boys dressed always in summer: clothes strung like flags between balconys’ warm wood, spectres of glass, and in the middle mad slags of grass – flat frogs of green and desolate of children. <br />I try to take my place here everyday, a seed of culture, pan-fried lugger, walking under lines of white in blue skies; exhausts cloud-mimicking, conversations in god-defying places. <br />Sketch me this, nameless deity, in a dream as you may have done for others. Let your artist’s purse pore these sins and miracles into another life and take the old one to that dark room; clusters of urns, broken clay, emaciated dialects, centuries of sea-views unfinished. <br /> Waking with the boys watching, moving full-pocketed past a yellowed motor grazing by the curb whose engine ticks over between open corridors of brick lattice. I remember; an unfortunate nostalgia. Somewhere the lord calls and all this comes to life, and the lion roars.<br /><br />Stug Jordan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/another-life-8/
