the poplars are still
silver shivers inside
ripples repeating themselves
within the pillars
of their trunks

my favourite bit
when you appeared
around the bend
at the end of my street
come to meet me
the ghost of gold
on an autumn night
stitched together
with neon thread
your black dress
splashed by the sirens
from the cries of the city
your red heels
sparked the sealskin
of the pavement
drains choked with fire

daylight crashes
against the skylight
woodsmoke laces the air
with the cream
of its song

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

star charts
blueprints
for starlings

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

watched the wind
read the fields
each blade of grass
a word