storm in the earth
night bright
with the peeled back
bellies of leaves
begging for the blade
rooms lit by storms
and midnight snow
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
leaves become
same colour
as the fire
that made them fall
you’re the barn owl
born from the ground bones of a bonfire
in the font turned firepit
at the heart of my crumbled cathedral
a gate
spills the garden
into the street
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
summer did not live
in that summerhouse
winter and spring
braided themselves there
ghosts aren’t only
what has been
they’re also
what never happened
echo of songs
never sung
never listened to
is love
the performers
performing for themselves
a slow show
once the wings
of the main show
packed away
instruments played gentle
as injuries
glass the gatekeeper
asks the sky
if they’re on the list
held together
by threadbare threads
my frayed feathers
stroke the sky
from the ground
stilled by all the sunlight
held in your skin
curtains need the breeze
to touch the room
a little more