JG Ballard

less out of adolescent lust-
rather another puppy love; never!
This is not new, not something I imagine I could ever
share with someone else.
stop winding the clock behind my back.

Silently, the night draws her white moon cloak
over my lashes
and I'm half asleep (three quarters)
sinking resolutely into the paper
ink drips like heavy fog.

Inch by inch a new evening births itself
from among round about clouds:
it blooms.

Let us not say that it is now, ever,
for time is not here, it does not swim
in gardens not containing pansies.

Hope, see that,
don't keep playing ball with black cats.
Just remember so many times
(linen, under my breath)
flowering slowly behind a chair
behind, reflecting star,
The sky suddenly seems made of denim.