“older words”

ink, on. paper.

write ‘memory’ till
it looks right. drop
pen, work temples.

breath, slow. reread.

turned notebook shy,
you, who sent one
written crying-fast
in a parcel. distance.

eyes. close.

words – you wanted
to say so many, then.
now you wouldn’t say
any at all.

“Curtained Sunlight”

It’s more like ink than blood,
despite the implications of writing
your death on the page quite so
failingly, haltingly literally.
It’s more like life than not,
despite a general lack of vigour
and movement and love and passion
calling you to rise instead of
midday sunbeams burning your eyes.