Paradise Street

Voices arc the street -
electric sparks
blue – too blue – against this sky
and day balances
on the white-glossed sill


The confession low
at the window,
curtained for a moment before

it rides
on the rolling wave of engines
clattering shakes of buses pressed to full with
faces mouthing

on the tightly
plucked out song of birds
all praising now and now
as if it mattered

far from her, this room, this window,
this open street of Tuesdays -
Thursdays -
strung out flags of welcome
red with celebration

but not for her.

She curls against it,
lets the sting invade
and burn its way
to her core.

Wants to cauterise
that she knows
she cannot keep.


© Jo Swingler 2009