I don’t think about the thorns
I think about the blackberries
of your love
how they reveal the labyrinths
of my fingerprints
that touches the dark
trying to find your face
glass the gatekeeper
asks the sky
if they’re on the list
I’ve been out watching moths
wings made from buddleia petals
brains the ghosts of embers
edges still lit
threads a fuse
I see you
the suits of shadows
lined with gold
stars born
from the sparks
of figure skaters
figure eighting
upon the dark ice
of deep space
the tear
of the candle flame
sharpened
like a sable brush
pinched to a point
by the lips
of the sky
that refuses
to let it fall
the column
of its body
turns clear
before the soft chorus
of smoke
pulled
from its scorched
throat
held together
by threadbare threads
my frayed feathers
stroke the sky
from the ground
watched the wind
read the fields
each blade of grass
a word
a gate
spills the garden
into the street
you are the stained light
staining the stone
the church ceiling
crumbled into cabbage whites
shadows shattered
into black butterflies
worn away with waking
beneath summer sun
share the shadow
of a brolly with you
within its soft circle
we’ll listen to the rain
in each other
you speak in song
sing to the robin
about how your heart
rusted red
my heart
more cave and cavity now
waiting for the collapse