Posted in Misc, Poetry

june ii

I dream of a world in which

I. I can turn cartwheels on loose sand,
in front of too-bright, postcard sunsets
legs pin-straight,
mouth cave-open

II. I part rose petals,
gentle, searching, slow

III. Grass stains colour my clothes,
dot my skin, impossibly green,
the print of the crisp yard

IV. There are voices, there is sound,
there is open space

Take me there.

Posted in Misc, Poetry

january ii

It seems that the more you know,
the less you know;

When only vines hold your bones together,
and all you have is dust,

Is there a bark-covered sparking neuron
that remembers?

Posted in Misc, Poetry

december ii

Red-rimmed and paper-thin,
We all shiver in the cold bite.
It’s the last, it’s the end,
and I think to myself,
What have I done?
For twelve long years, what have I done?
I look at cool white plaster, at
chalk powder fine as first snow,
at watery smiles,
and I know that I have donesomethingright.

Posted in Poetry

november ii

Blue toes, blue spatters across white,
Spiderwebs through a canvas of
Inching towards a cliff’s edge,
Is this what liminal is?
Stare brave into the saxe
but don’t jump;
Wet wool has an ugly rasp.

Posted in Misc, Poetry

12 mistakes on a monday morning

Stumble out,
the dawn is still grey, a sickly tinge cocooning your world,
but within the dead muffling is a pinprick of bright blood–

Everything is out of order:
this routine,
the coffee machine,
and the shower hisses reluctant at this early waking.

Fingers through the snarls in heavy, wet hair;
it is almost blade-sharp,
beneath the three days’ unwashed glaze,
and not even the spitting water can clean the ink spots from your fingers.

The towel wilts, smelling of yesterday,
chicken coop, not swan down,
and slickness spills you to your knees on the wet tiled floor.

Stumble out,
rinse, repeat.