shift from life to live
alongside the sediment,
the rock we sought
to know. changes drip
through the earth and touch
all that’s come before. care
take the darkness, burrow
beneath the wreckage, love
places that can’t be touched
by the living. walk with
the dead, what they were
before the winds shifted
and left them here. here,
here we found the quiet.
i will allow myself to be
furious about this. to feel
it build in the blood,
uproar of upcoming vindication,
correction woefully ignored
or misunderstood. it is
what we are, what
i wish i was. i don’t
have a right to this, the
rage is borrowed, bound
to a story i have not lived.
let’s make a go of this, morning
one, bringer of light. you,
most beloved, and us, the shale.
impermanent mollusc lives, washing
up across your shores. what does
that feel like? we knew what
you did in spilling blood in
heaven, but the why would be nice.
wolf, you brought me fresh silence
stretched and torn with little pockets
of gravity and star-stuff. it’s mostly new,
i think, more deliberate and considered
than i’m used to. we’ll come to know it well,
wear out the spine till it refuses to close
completely, in well-read protest. sketch
some battle lines in fitted quiet.
silence, insurrection. over hilltops
we’ve swarmed, down city streets,
waved placards in front of more
or less everywhere. after all
that noise, silence feels alien
and yet we’re getting used to it.
indifference is the face of god,
lower case, observant and uncaring.
the fury grows despite ourselves,
and all we say comes to pass,
and nothing’s done. i’m just
writing, doing nothing, i’ve no claim
to struggle other than that i made
for myself. i am owed nothing
and they are owed the world.
calamity woke us – below,
always below. corridors, halls,
all paths eventually twisted
to us. now they’ll twist for us.
the water grows dark, castle walls
fall, and we decide to keep swimming.
stand amongst, bare thought,
honest. it’s all you’ve got,
rainfall, thunder, giants. guide,
bring us – yourself – to edges,
yours, jagged little tears. learn
the precision of them, run hand
along the frills and cuts, then,
then you’ve a map, and nothing
on the road can surprise you.
we’re all old gods
if that meant something,
we’re all points, scratching
wrists to jigsaw piece
conversations. bright light
of midnight phone text app
thoughts that mean something,
books on broken pagan statues
and unhelpful narratives and
mostly blank notebooks, at least
half, can’t write on the left it’s
wrong i wonder
if gods have panic attacks.