The Poetry Corner

Wincing

By Paul Cameron Brown

You can't go back, to Love, a home. memories of Pearl Bailey even a scatterbrained job curled like a Morning Glory about the ribs of day. Everyone repeats not going back. A sly ripple on the cape of wind, peaking with absentminded glee, into that bulge from within your past, beyond your left arm, called "before". Dismissing angels, refusing to court hardship, not to mention wincing that comes from attaching the mouth too fiercely on privale parts and all flasks with firm memory; wheeling drunkenly on her thought. her sayings, sculling backwaters of your mind with little fingers each repeating sane warnings.