Here on a pretence of fixing something,
Talentless as I am,
Hers the only room with working lights.
Standing side by side in
the airy lull,
looking out to sea as we speak.
‘Is that the caverns?’
I nod to the street.
‘Yes, but I haven’t been. They’re too expensive.’
Her comment is absurd,
her accent Russian.
Her beauty is made of glass
in small, fragile features and
I know that
I am not good enough.
Out in the sunny coloured garden,
Her back to
the noise of the beach
I see,
Over her shoulder,
two chimneys fall off the horizon.
Too polite to interrupt,
I adopt the air of
a policeman in crisis.
I’ve heard about fata morgana but
I know
That I already know.
Silent destruction of
scattered world atop white froth.
I am calm, by the way.
I reach out for the
silk of her long dark hair,
doomed beauty,
the tide
up to my chest,
about the height of my heart.
BENJAMIN OLSEN is a writer of poetry, flash fiction and short stories. He lives with his wife and two small children in Bournemouth and is currently studying an MA in Creative Writing and Publishing. He is working on his first novel 17 Flaws. Sometimes he tweets nonsense at @BenOlsen1
The Cabinet of Heed 