“less of”

volume, semantics – together
we’ve seen every sentence
properly restored, gleaned
fragmented description
into tools, sharp bladed
instruments, cool scalpels
for cutting flowers.

“misgiving”

we lived downstreet,
drunk with colour &
cracks, looking for
warmth – we were
promised being
broken led to light.

“poetica”

from largest to smallest
you wrote, starting with
the cliches, as is
tradition – now the years
have gone long

and all you
write is dust

“Veined”

in blood, dim
thoughts find
themselves.

there’s fascination
with that, with those
patterns in the red.

“inherence”

memory – muscle
thin vine curling
up the masonry.

breath, write.
drop – hold nothing,
but drop. empty
days and minds.

“day-to-day”

there’s as much truth
as we want in this,
stone-carved stories
bloodied bark and
tearooms, lives
we talk about living.

“picture”

it was near the river,
when we heard thunder,
echo of a broken sky.

i smudged the colours
on your neck, blurred
those painted edges
while jotting highlights
to your eyes – wince
and sit, glancing down
at water popping up
all along the river.

you sat with me
while you ran away.

“quiet”

incense light, shadowed
wisps follow lines along
your jaw, splitting nostrils
exhale to cycle, breath.
forget – forget – forget.

mandate silence, curtain
open, reflect-light merge
throw shapes on skin.
think loud to not think.
cold air, bridge of nose;
imperative nothing.

“Travel”

She suggested walking at night
when the sky was relatively clear.
There you’d find poetry, scraps
tucked into moments – an ocean
of yellowed nightlights defying
an absent sun. There’d be more
luck there than in off-white rooms
all filled with glowing screens
and things too like life.

it was cold.

“Lost”

part of the appeal in being lost
is being found by you.