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.
i keep finding myself looking
for ways to write about other
things and people, like i can’t
write about myself.
grope through reoccurring images,
applying them to fresh-paint souls,
beheaded statues, and historical names.
i can’t remember when i realised
there was blood in the roots.
we’ll grow to stone,
reaching up through
the garden, leaving
little placards of names,
dates, and deeds.
cultivate the narrative
with flowers, lilted
prose and pre-aged
marble faces. wonder
if we’ll be broken too,