In Tagore's last poems he imagines words popped of
loose, in the sky, nonsense syllables, pure colour
At the post office I watch a man for an hour
sew my parcels with a large needle
a purple full stop on his thumb
I never saw the Taj Mahal.
I write I never saw the Taj Mahal
but write 'sew' instead of 'saw'
I never sew
His ear lit up like a daffodil
He found four bees in his car
It was a leap year. February rushed
past like formula one
a twist of tomato
in the alcohol
Luke Beesley lives in Melbourne. These insidious little poems are in his recent book 'Balance” from Whitmore Press.