2 poems by Foy Timms

hole in house
In Parcels of Dusk
A sack of children elbowed their life chances
into semicircles of existence.
Emerging from concrete at birth,
the boys grew into gaps
beyond tenderness and direction.
And the holes in their houses were unforgiving,
tipping them into a mean thankless bowl of deracinated living.
Hurrying along the banks of their lives,
joined up seasons of boy men
hang over stolen trolley futures and abandoned fairgrounds.
In tuneless, toothless margins of night,
they observe the inner linings of others, fidgeting in parcels of dusk.
The oldest trunk of a boy leans against tall scaffolding,
ungifting himself to the world.
In Mourning Boots
Slinking badger-like onto trains at barely lit stations,
I am holding onto your name,
holding onto your house
and the scattered belongings within,
before plunging them into hostile sky chapters
and then removing them again
with the forbearing patience of ventriloquist hands.
Sinking into the valley of a peopleless carriage,
I earn an intangible survival
which nods at street lights from afar.
And now I am rubbing eloquence onto rudderless blunders
and midnight regrets which hide and seek their way
around forgiveness.
And the overnight train abruptly jolts and then stops
as hours crease and cease to ache in evolving blue.
I walk out into piercing sunlight, emptied onto the lungs
of an undiscerning town.
Walking until I,
Walking still,
In mourning boots.
Foy Timms is a poet/writer based in Reading, Berkshire, U.K. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Glove, Hypnopomp, Peeking Cat Poetry and Pulp Poets Press, among others. She is preoccupied with themes/subjects such as fleeting ‘connections’, departure, solitude, British towns and villages, social exclusion and the sociopolitical dimensions of living spaces. Twitter: @FoyTimms

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