Recent Work By Desmond Kon

He kicked off his sandals, walked
barefoot into the kitchen.
“I want to believe you. Will you let me?”
The moon went blue, strange and grey.


I don’t feel safe in this world.
Like their lyric poet,
I write – sharp tool, voice hollow in a creek:
“Was it a good death for the animal?”


Strictly entre nous, both chairs collapse,
one teak and mulberry find.
Between you and me, you and I –
where’s the ochre corridor? Take us?