Under A (Now) Hornless Crab

A nomad without siren
draws on a scallop'd imp to raise the pins
from charcoal screens and nickel ribbons;
and ideas in bright sick sun glassed waves
are hurled in spirals through forbidden realms
like a devil plucking goats for soup.
Then foul veins expand at dainty breath,
powerless at scenes of a barefoot doll,
her hands on foxglove hips,
twitching the water with salmon curtains
calling for murders of innocence.

And yet for all hopes of salamander dances,
the yearning for unholy pits,
a bare heel, simple like a boiled acorn
and an Oriental wink
holds the guillotine in place.
The awful drop that allows no backward glances
to fields of order is stayed;
as is the yellow colour of a ripe sun
and the gentle green of grass....

@ Steven Francis poems 2012

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