Travel Joy

by John Philip Gethring

photo for wsj

                                 The camera shivers through
                                 a quiet touch of eye contact
                                 shuttering a fracture of time’s square-ness.

                                 In it, friends dress
                                 tastefully gross
                                 formed to styles of denim queens.
                                 That of generations not present in their age.

                                 Evermore interesting,
                                 the billow of cigarette smoke
                                 shaping to a spray of iris flowers,
                                 purple, when is thought of dream.  And so
                                 broken are the laws of literature and singularity.

                                 Turn these haunts to falling weeks
                                 as fabric to the weave
                                 mechanism to the water.

                                 The drive home keeps us partly in motion,
                                 into the night and its flaw.

                                 A variant of red darkness creeps across
                                 her face, headlights bursting her
                                 skin to roses.

                                 The breath of rain fogs the road
                                 and our bodies steam
                                 behind sweating windows.

                                 Watch air become heavy
                                 with water, rinsing city lights to lambent phosphenes,
                                 rub the
                                 sleep from off our eyes.

                                 And say goodbyes to where we met
                                 our gypsy camp that sketched the
                                 planet, inviting friends to be lovers.

                                 Isn’t this all temporary? There’s too much
                                 ground to cover.

                                 Fit what we can in our pockets, stuff
                                 them with finesses
                                 of Grosvenor road, The Union
                                 where early mornings danced in the smoke
                                 of dry ice, light rays passing
                                 through us.

                                 River Thames, our muddy compass
                                 dumping the city’s imperfections
                                 into the North Sea and
                                 folding with unexpectedness,
                                 people sharing half-smiles for
                                 the ephemeral splash of blue.

                                 But our particles collided beautifully here,
                                 in and out of moments,
                                 what a mess we have created.



John Philip Gething

John Philip Gething is originally from Scranton, Pennsylvania, but is now based in the UK. His chosen genre is poetry.

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