my hand a sparrow
dreaming in the bowl
of your palm
a gate
spills the garden
into the street
sparrows dream songs
within the walls
light soaked into
a longed-for letter
never sent
never written
rings made from rainfall
your heart
more scar than tissue now
you’re scarring the scars
summer did not live
in that summerhouse
winter and spring
braided themselves there
the seabed still remembers
sunlight upon its skin
watched the wind
read the fields
each blade of grass
a word
just before the kiss
push me back into the world
like ghosts do
when the living get too close
the scent of skin
too much
they push away
because they long too much
for what they’ve lost
they want you too stay
in the world
you because
you don’t want to hold
what will be lost
ghosts aren’t only
what has been
they’re also
what never happened
echo of songs
never sung
never listened to
lamps wore away
at the dark
you speak in song
sing to the robin
about how your heart
rusted red
I wonder if the candle
is sucking smoke
back into its body