Poetry at Sangam



Empty Diary 2015 by Robert Sheppard

Her blink traps all             a cry caught
In her throat curtains the ruins
Behind her imperfect beauty her mind
Perfectly balanced tracks your movements

She loves silver waterfalls dropping into steely pools
Smog-free air ringing with well-being
She drops a social class or two in perfect pitch
A wall of cloud and tipping metal topples

Close up she’s just dust a fusty form or
Anti-form skimpiness raised to the power
Of unlaced plumage it rustles on her head
She smiles abstractly at whatever distracts from

Her power of display her gown hangs lose
As supposition enfleshes her shoulder