Friday, 11 July 2008

Two by the late Max Douglas


a janitor comes and sits
near me on a bench

I continue drawing perspectives
he lights a cigarette

vanish like Joan of Arc

he yawns consonantly
I think of being locked

inside the moon
it is time to go

on my way home
I pass through a

cobweb strung
between pine trees



and on this concrete
stoop where I am

there are scratched

it is
a sort

of poetry
there are equations

of love
an economy

mostly there are no names

but symbols
formed of the overlapping


Max Douglas: look him up

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