Emily All Round Me, by Mark Saunders

I lay a Place— although—
I know you won’t be near—

I speak out loud in Hope—
in bolts of Pique— in awe—
it could be Dying’s parlor
game— addressed— behind a Door.
It could be your name—”Calling”—
pushed narrowly ajar—
or you— uncomprehending
within— Sunrise paned— afar.
If Time and Continents
could be stitched— sewn tightly—
over sea— I would look up
and Love— ***— New Englandly.

The Dawn window makes Music
Phoebe bright— the Jays wake
from the notelessness of Night—
Doves quote Bliss— for your sake.
Skies Riddle— What’s begun
with Eends E sounds E Why?
Happy letters!— kissed on—
tearstained— nestled utterly.
You unpocket furthest off—
I picture falling auburn—
thread the red glance— the still white
sheet inside— your lock turn.

If I visit— let me be
that shapeless friend— obscure—
before the Daylight flares
from Amherst to your Chamber.
Let me know— not anything—
but Instinct’s silhouette—
monotonously clear— Dear—
let me dwell and not forget.
I trace your posy— poselessness—
the irrealis Mood— 
a symmetry in your pressed lips—
Romanza— not withstood.

Close to— we are Impostors—
under asterisks— and dashed—
star lines travelled— crossed three ways—
anonymousness slashed.
Your hand is slant— skimming
milk— the page— the flowers
italicly arranged—
kept at a distance— held for hours.
If you are all Grief— all Joy—
I just found out— I know—
What is true— Immortal 
friend— What yields?—

When can I go?


Mark Saunders lives on the Isle of Wight in the UK. His writing can be found in Abridged, The Cannon’s Mouth, Confluence, emagazine, Meniscus, The Museum of Americana, Red Ogre, Soft Star, and Spelt. He has appeared at Ventnor Fringe Festival and other venues.