The Cover

Danpicby Daniel Jones11 Nov 2013

If my adventure,
was the buttoned-down whirring
of wheels against the rush,
then I would call it that
– as the mud covers the rust.

If my belonging,
was the skirting, shallow warmth
of a shadow in the dawn,
then I would call it that
– as each cesarean night is mourned.

If my desire,
was the ecclesiastic rattle
of a shoebox full of thorns,
then I would call it that
– as I hide my years under the floor.

If my generation,
was a glass and tepid lake
unstirred, shielded from all shores,
then I would call it that
– as the coast gathers, ignored.

If my magnificence,
was a leather bound hymn
Sang through bristles of my beard
Then I would call it that
– as each note holds, dry and clear.

If my contempt,
was a field of spinning plates
held high into the storm,
then I would call it that
– as their crash rings through the moor.

If my dominion,
was the birth of words which race
the red against the green,
then I would call it that
– as I plough my dirt into my clean.