smoke splices its tongue
more surface area
to taste the dark
stories to temper steel to
when the story falls silent
the folds folded
asleep inside the blade
bells hold onto
all the peals struck
from the dark
of their bodies
a forever home for shadows
hung in the wind
that whips whispers
from their stillness
the white of a waterfall
the moon hiding half its face
I think of the shadows we could have created
floorboards laid together
the seams of dark between us
thick with spilled stars
I’ve been out watching moths
wings made from buddleia petals
brains the ghosts of embers
edges still lit
threads a fuse
the horizon howled
snow swept the streets
you’re the green fronds of fire
that grouts the cobbled back streets of my heart
the bright butterflies still being born
from the braided shadows of brambles
blossom become sentient
is love
the performers
performing for themselves
a slow show
once the wings
of the main show
packed away
instruments played gentle
as injuries
summer did not live
in that summerhouse
winter and spring
braided themselves there
how the wind
hisses a sigh
through the reeds
how the sea sings
far inland
I sunbathed
in your shadow
silhouettes pirouette
with the shadows
of marionettes
watched the wind
read the fields
each blade of grass
a word