Goggles and golden teeth

by Christos Polydorou

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We cannot know the signs are signs until they start to repeat themselves

Just beneath the skin of reality
is a second reality layered upon
by time, lovesickness, and the
love poetry of a million poets
all both dead and alive now
coming to life, as we disintergrate
their caryatids in our gardens,
as we read their poems
to the blackbirds on the chimneys,
as the doves are eating fresh sprung leaves
from the branches.

Dreaming of you until each
dawn chorus.

(I asked Google flat out
is it going to rain today
No, Google replied,
Rain is not expected
in London today.

Cut to me caught in the rain.)

All the roses of London beaded
with raindrops

illuminated by
flecks of the golden chips

flecks
of the golden chips

of Heaven’s mystical
golden tooth.

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