you’re the barn owl
born from the ground bones of a bonfire
in the font turned firepit
at the heart of my crumbled cathedral
a blizzard of butterflies
I won’t speak to you again
I will still sing to you
songs white as whispers
same frequency as ghosts
you are the stained light
staining the stone
the church ceiling
crumbled into cabbage whites
shadows shattered
into black butterflies
there is another show
long after
the main event
the cacophony of clowns
become stroked cymbals
the trapeze artist
tiptoes over the camber
of the milky way
suspended in a puddle
the human cannonball
curls like a cat into its crater
dreams of petri dishes
blooming with flowers
the sword swallower
lets the hilt lay in their hand
for a little while
before laying the blade
amongst the blades of grass
starlight soaks into the steel
the juggler
stands the pins before the fire
their faceless faces watch
the feathers of flames
smudges tears over shy smiles
the contortionist
hugs their knees
unwinds a story into the pool
of their shadow
the fire breather
feels the smoke
feeling its way
through the dark of their body
fingers soft as silk
in the morning
just the footprint of the fire
where god
stubbed out their cigar
or
where an elephant
bruised the earth
balancing upon one foot
its trunk
held onto air
heart a grate
full with ash
carried out
to the garden
on a warm
windy night
stories to temper steel to
when the story falls silent
the folds folded
asleep inside the blade
fairy lights flickered
when no one was watching
woodsmoke curled to sleep
in the grass
curtains wait for a breeze
so they can breathe again
stilled by all the sunlight
held in your skin
I think of the shadows we could have created
floorboards laid together
the seams of dark between us
thick with spilled stars
a gate
spills the garden
into the street
the cry of church bells
across the city
serpents of scent
wrapped round your wrists
how the wind
hisses a sigh
through the reeds
how the sea sings
far inland