Simon Jenner

M Courtney Soper

He threatened sense with
his wet origami. It crumbled to a rope
of tattery verb-ends, frail precious papyri
and, from across a damp culture, a wyrd
of word hoards. No devout SAE ladened
his one-way song, addressed to
another feudal editor.

His sweep of us all promised
a heavy trapeze artist who doesn’t
care to be bounced back, but
kept forever suspended by a poem’s
hairline in a Damocles of undelivered
rejections, blithe of his words, struck
down and crumpled; kernelled by
a fist to the basket.

But I remember his disjunct name,
his emptying gesture, clearer than
most of my acceptances.
Does absence make his heart go?

His singularity’s a black hole
on ‘no’, where he’ll not
come down, not let me back
to haunt myself, where he found me,
but in a banquet of his choosing.
He’d find me at home to
his chop-fallen language.

Simon Jenner © 2007/8