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David Doyle: The Cobbled Sky

October 24, 2016 by PBQ

If I could touch it, 
feel the overcast sift between my fingertips, 
I would not wander the sour barley stench 
of thin grey walkways and startle sleeping pigeons 
for a cappuccino and soda slice. 
 
The café’s two ceramic bowls 
come alive with dripping violets 
beneath the creak of a wooden fish 
ubiquitous as the bog black soup and sea foam crest, 
the animal pies, the fry. 
 
And I’m lost in a lazy wicker seat, 
a leaner of sorts, until the pleated green dress in passing. 
The chestnut hair. Unpainted eyes. 
 
The brushing— 
a scent of lavender and vanilla warms the mouth. 
It must also be in hers. 
 
She sits by the water, 
holds her knees, reads. 
Leaves with the soft silt of evening. 
 
Now the streets are oyster shells 
abandoned to the walking tides,   
and only the river like a neon mosaic 
taking the electric flow into itself 
craves no one. 

Filed Under: Contributors 94, Issue 94, Poetry, Poetry 94 Tagged With: Contributors 94, David Doyle, Poetry, Poetry 94

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