ros barber

First Thought

She will be white. She will be tall, and white,
and so unthought as to stall the sea mid-wave.
Her curves, like touch. As though she'd stroked your face
just by your looking. And she will command light,
bend it, bow it, inhale and expire it bright
as a first thought. And yours will fall away
to be replaced by nothing but clear, sheer, space.
Like creation itself. Like air. Like appetite.

And there - in the gap - all things are possible.
Undo, erase, and see what grows instead.
Unlearn your learning down to the last wrong
sum. To the last lost love. Give her your skull
and blast the present away. From emptiness,
a breath to build upon. From silence, song.

From the Embassy Court sonnets.
Published in How Things Are On Thursday