“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.

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“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.