Closures: A Poem

Closures

The line’s a line but drawn oblique.
Each day gives barely half the space.
The blood is work. The flesh is weak.

Mere charm in touch is all technique.
Clear eyes recoil, for nowadays
the line’s a line but drawn oblique.

Your body’s warm, but shabby chic.
The life you live fills twice your days.
The blood is work. The flesh is weak.

The language falters, so to speak.
The boundaries mock each social grace.
The line’s a line but drawn oblique.

The empty word is not unique:
thousands suggest themselves. Always
the blood is work. The flesh is weak.

Futility is all your lesson this week:
the bloodline ends. The feeling stays.
The line’s a line but drawn oblique.
The blood is work. The flesh is weak.

Note: This poem appears in ‘Distancing’, the opening section from my long 2020 work The Tesserae. It seemed like a nice idea to draw a link between that longer poem and this new blog by publishing (or republishing) this short lyric as the first poem on Calenture. It’s a villanelle, a French verse form, although the form took its name from an Italian one: the word derives from villanella, an Italian part-song which originated in Naples in the sixteenth century.

This poem © Oliver Tearle 2020

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