The Mask of Capability
All you need is that hair-cut—
crisp, no-nonsense, untouched
by weather — and shoes
commanding their ground.
Channel your first teacher, chapel organist,
the librarian who knew your mother,
every serviceable colour
in the Pantone guide.
You’re so nearly there
where the mask will fool them all.
St Thomas à Becket considers the Resurrection of the Body
Together now, my bones: unsplinter,
leave the lies of attribution
in each jewelled chasse. Unscatter
from those Limoges reliquaries
bowed to by pilgrims. Unwrap your scraps and slivers.
Come, bearing your passports to eternity.
We can tell each other such stories
of travel and trading, the whole world
of miracles and laughter.
I will be glad to get my elbow back.
Free as Air
Front wheel rolling high
snaking the white line
tyres pumped to bursting
all easy muscle and command
fuck off to hooting cars’ hot metal,
a pavement of watching mates
unschooled for summer.
One long stretch of itchy evenings,
the royal flush.
If you have any thoughts on these
poems, D.A. Prince would be pleased to hear them.