It's Still Life

Two draft versions. A work in progress…
 

I.
Individual Humour

I heard your voice
deep in the swirl
of a nautilus shell,

heard you laughing
in a language I
didn’t understand,

as if humour
was breath and blood.
A priest’s liturgy.

I often wonder which words
leave you humourless.
Which mantra unwraps you
like God’s gift.

It should be a birthright,
humour, like ears. Toes.
Feet have such a sad
sense, don’t you think.

And the room falls about
laughing. You have them
dying in the aisles.

II.
Individual Humour

I often wonder which words
leave you humourless.
Which mantra unwraps you
like God’s gift.
I heard your voice
deep in the swirl
of a nautilus shell,

heard you laughing
in a language I
didn’t understand,
as if humour
was breath and blood.
A priest’s liturgy.

It should be a birthright,
humour, like ears. Toes.
Feet have such a sad
sense, don’t you think.
And the room falls about
laughing. You have them
dying in the aisles.