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

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caves will call
to the sky
sky will become
ceiling

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fairy lights flickered
when no one was watching
woodsmoke curled to sleep
in the grass

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sky packed too tight
bruised blue
needs to split itself open
thunder the wedge
hammered into the heart
of the stone
of the sky

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you’re the drafts of dusk
that sifts the rusty rafters
songlines become sighlines

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close the gate gentle
make it chime
close it like a delicate thing
as if just leaving
looking in
upon a sleeping child
isn’t that how hearts
should be handled
footsteps made faint
by grass
no knock required
no doorbell
rattling the rooms
just the soft cry
of a rusted hinge


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leaves become
same colour
as the fire
that made them fall

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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

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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

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stars born
from the sparks
of figure skaters
figure eighting
upon the dark ice
of deep space

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summer did not live
in that summerhouse
winter and spring
braided themselves there

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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

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pirouette upon rusted blades
across scorched streets
dissolve into the spray
of their own sparks
rust and ash
pollen and snow

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you’re the leaves that foxtrot
with the tatters of a plastic bag
in the blustery corner of my deserted courtyard
become young again
twirled by the world-weary wind
that still remembers how to dance

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