Poem for Roy Batty
Kona Macphee

Whenever neon trickles down
to meet a city drain,
I think of you on some wet roof,
a cobbled son of men –

the thorned corona of your hair
that crowns a failing sun,
the closing lotus of your hand,
its nail to pin the flown;

and when the blue sky beckons through
a fissure in the rain,
you haunt the hurt leak of my pulse –
beat gone, beat gone, beat gone.

from What Long Miles (Tarset: Bloodaxe, 2013)

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