October— in poems (2021).

  • Dorrell Merritt
An edit of some poems written during October.

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Image: Untitled (2021), taken from Terminal 5.
To sleep in the shadows of monoliths. Selfish thunders crack a torrid sky, split with silver, then a dull flash, softening horrid structures bent, tall, decrepit, gentle, towering over wilderness. Silent are cattle, lambs and men, rivers full, like fervent veins, amorous; as small as an ant, a grain or lonely babe— rolls on, the night, murmuring dark to stone.
Aesop & Skagerak. I have working-class bones: grease-wrapped chips,  trips to Wembley Market, now dreaming latent of racks spent on Skagerak racks, shipped from Denmark, slate plates, eames chairs, or horsehead philodendrons; slow-day Aesop splurges amidst the art, dogs, babies; babe with the CDG, YMC orders like a hoarder, reworking the parquet, reworking the ceiling borders, aeons from beginnings, blunt, humble, most pure.
Spongebob. Well-dones always at the back, combinations stacked, if different, but the salt makes the difference, plenty, with pepper, in a mist. Four turns and a prod, patient; three and a half, I call, all in a row, hells-hands with the final press: like Spongebob with the spatula— fat leaks a sizzle, grilled and seated.
George. Waiting lowly on the garden gate, for me, every other day or so, or more; black baby beauty with tiny mews— we’d chat for while, while he balanced, staying often after I was gone and warm. I remember my birthday visit well— or me in the garden, potting cuttings, sunning with me, on weathered old slabs, while I shovelled, molded, hopeful; or scooping him up with a loving arm.