you’re the drafts of dusk
that sifts the rusty rafters
songlines become sighlines
ghosts aren’t only
what has been
they’re also
what never happened
echo of songs
never sung
never listened to
the poplars are still
silver shivers inside
ripples repeating themselves
within the pillars
of their trunks
don’t know how
to write about you anymore
I’ll let silence sing
a draft drifts
through your fingers
fields of grass
tickles your palms
muzzle of a dog
wet for a walk
dandelions detonate
within your dreams
sky wakes you
sings through
the letterbox
is love
the performers
performing for themselves
a slow show
once the wings
of the main show
packed away
instruments played gentle
as injuries
curtains wait for a breeze
so they can breathe again
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
sky packed too tight
bruised blue
needs to split itself open
thunder the wedge
hammered into the heart
of the stone
of the sky
I wonder if the candle
is sucking smoke
back into its body
you’re the moth-eaten moths of memory
the torn tapestry of my life
its seams of moonlight
scars become skin
caves will call
to the sky
sky will become
ceiling
a cobweb of strings
poured from the cross
that control our limbs
lamps wore away
at the dark