Will you ever speak again?

For B.K.

Where is the poet hiding

When he speaks no more.


He glides through

Corridors and drawing rooms

Casting shadows on the walls.


He gazes empty

In his teacup

Tearing tears around his spoon.


He gathers politics and pains

On tiny saucers once so full

Of joy and merriment

Oh silver-tongued.


I bumped into him

As he was

Propelled into the distance

Shadowy and cast.


Trepidation on my tongue


Will you ever speak again?


3 March 2013

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