Poems by Peter Layton

The Newness of These Wounds

I still see you in the mirrors of this house.
You somewhat shyly looking.
Your smallest amount of vanity showing.
Which
I'll keep with me.
And the house's mirrors retain you too.
They seeking
around the dust corners the
now quiet quiet left behind items on shelves,
the mum locket, diary, keys
perhaps left discarded, strewn.


Saying Wham

I love to touch the
lusty swells and curves of
a corvette.
And its heavy throated engine ready
to jump to my tamped down foot.

I'll feel
like I'm made of money now,
the engine racing at my touch.
One of the few times I've felt rich is
in the tight contours
of this beautiful beast.

And the cops feel it too,
snapping on their flashing red blue
Christmas tree lights.
Lighting up the road.
I'm lit up.
They'll annoyingly ply me with questions.
Difficult ones deep and philosophic,
Is this your car?


Iron Rust

This place is
exacting
where the run X'es of steel girders
dance
over the pituitary gland of river below.

The air sings.
There are wavering curtains of noise
boulder held waves of tumbling water I
wish so much to stay here
so hold this unanswerable moment.

You in the glass of what I have remembered,
the better almost perfect days
shook loose
to now.

{Poetry by Peter Layton}