Forest, FathomedDreamscape, whitewash. Snow on snow.
The curvature of love's dumb cry
beneath the arclight of the sky.
The hillside rises up, up a shadow
hung in the shadow of a heaven,
clung to the sides of all it has been,
the air gauzed as if in awe of it.
The trees are only as solid as they seem,
cut-paper casts like the heads of dolls.
Fathom-deep, deaf as dark under the mask
of sleep: the toll of blackened hearts.
Below, the train pulls on through the snow
like a string of beads all pinprick sparks
and needle-eyed stars - a trail stark as the tail
of a comet streaming 'cross the hollow of the hill,
seeming to fall into the
HomeHome, again. The dome of night
presses down like a mighty bell jar.
She hides her face to escape the looks
of other travellers on the last train.
It pains her, their pity. Their stares
and their half-smiles that say
that bruise really sets off the blue
of your eyes. As if they understood.
Instead, she examines her reflection
in the window, fragmented across fields
and clouds and telephone lines, reaching out.
She's a garden of black and blue blooms,
a harvest of half-moons and blinkered scars.
He says he loves her, needs her.
Sometimes, she's not so sure.
She's late, again. She imagines him,
sitting in the dark, hands before h
WinteringIt's a canvas of mouthings,
of open throats, that wave of grey.
Storm clouds pass like sails torn,
loosing their limbs to the wind
with each stroke of the brush.
There's a symphony in the rush
of them, howling their wolfcry, O -
breathings holes into the fabric,
Lethe leaving their lungs. And low,
tugging at the hymns that line the sky,
the moon, sister of a stone,
rises, rises with her hood of bone.
AstronautOnce, I stood in a downpour
and sought the dark side of the sun.
I could feel it in my rib bones, the pull
of that something, strong and sore
like gravity, or breath.
And that was that: the death of reality.
I had teetered over the edge of reason
and into somewhere more glazed,
more dazed, and altogether
much too perfect.
I wonder if reeled-up life
should ever feel this real,
whether six shadows are more than enough,
or whether colour should be so luminescent,
as intravenous as sound. Can I ever
be grounded enough if I hold conversations
with the ceiling above, or if I crouch
and look for love behind the radiator?
I live on