Your hand

Your hand Constellations speckles your fingers as if stars spat upon them or galaxies rising for breath from your blood all night you’ve been painting the night the sable brush of your flame sooting the back of my hands I feel the slight scratch of shooting stars as your hand heated heroin frothing within mine

August

  August Sun has started with the dying stubs of its cigarettes burning holes in the leaves lichen splashes the trees the soft glow of phlegm spat by the shadows argon starting its comedown screech of feedback becoming the  hum of the oncoming night leaves scratching circles into the streets ice skaters warming up practising …