It's a while since I have posted a poem, but I hope you enjoy it - please let me know how you found it.
As I look at the frightened creature sweltering in my hand
I realise some would call it an insect.
There are words to describe that kind of folly.
As alive as I am, as on edge, as apprehensive, as difficult:
As anxious for the other, we peer across a divide
filled with nothing.
As every desire peaks, each word sticks
in the back of my overburdened skull.
We agree to write the vocals in our gaze.
There’s a look that comes from within,
isn’t there? –I say, and screw up my eyes, small.
But it sighs.
The being will stare on and on
as if reading my quandary in the wind.
Certain as a heartbeat in its own mind.
What will follow?
One of us will be stung, or crushed,
will fling the other away, will exult.
Maybe, after all,
neither of us is being genuine.
Maybe it is more than an insect
and scorns my blundering eyes
Maybe it'll never tell what it knows.
But I thought there was something
There in the gaze.
© Richard Townrow