stars born
from the sparks
of figure skaters
figure eighting
upon the dark ice
of deep space
watched the wind
read the fields
each blade of grass
a word
pirouette upon rusted blades
across scorched streets
dissolve into the spray
of their own sparks
rust and ash
pollen and snow
is love
the performers
performing for themselves
a slow show
once the wings
of the main show
packed away
instruments played gentle
as injuries
a gate
spills the garden
into the street
I like how the last of the light
lingers in the tree outside my window
clings to all its small leaves
clinging to the branches
where you try to excavate
your encrypted heart
I wanted to touch the scars
upon your clawed at chest
the cry of church bells
across the city
serpents of scent
wrapped round your wrists
the susurrus
of your lost
long song
the smoke
of my soul
I’ve been out watching moths
wings made from buddleia petals
brains the ghosts of embers
edges still lit
threads a fuse
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
light soaked into
a longed-for letter
never sent
never written
beneath summer sun
share the shadow
of a brolly with you
within its soft circle
we’ll listen to the rain
in each other
to know light from my pages
reflected into your face
sunk into the sea glass of your eyes
to know light from your face
snowed blossom into the dark
of my words