“eyes up in nottingham”

i’m trying to make a habit
of looking up. turns out,
you see more. moving through
manifold gardens, glimpsing
the castle over council house
roofs, next to cigarette tower
industrials stabbing the skyline.


“it used to make sense”

she told me, long ago, she’d sworn
to create more than she destroyed.

burning ground to make way
for something new. intoxicating,
breathing in the past and grinning
at its absence.        yes-saying
future-making. existence precedes
essence.                   books pile up
on desks, names and contents blur
together. apathy is death, decay, we
watch it fade away or prop it up
or help destroy it either way we build
again eventually. i don’t know.

“i’m stuck on images”

rainfall, feet in a mess of scorpion grass

we took our time and cultivated
blood, let it drip down through us,
little leaves falling with the weight.
today we set our house in order

the tree does not know
its roots. it had a name,
like most things do. we
were everything at once,
stuck on images. garlands
descending to the forest,
anointing fallen, red flakes
twist and shift, crumbling
into outstretched palms.

“question and answer”

when the world stops being real
(something        about        fogs,
see-through banks        of
mist,       twisting to intercede
reality                – then    i    say
vignetted, like that
means                something)
what are we supposed to do?

are you sure you’re not just burned
out or lacking sugar or not getting out
enough or maybe you’re just depressed
or you’re overreacting and this is normal

you’re not real        i wrote you