Poem of the Week

When I go to the river with my trouble,

and sit under the big trees, I see my girl again.

Her dress is the colour of soft butter.

Her hunger tastes of whiskey and rain.

Behind us is darkness, and darkness lies ahead.

The worst kind of pain is to miss someone

you’ve never known, and worse, never will.

The emptiest days are loveliest; only

people with desires can be fooled,

and I have none.