These trees swaying
in the wind; whispered
strange communication between
above & soil beneath; a gift given
from one to the other, not
simply objects but
of absence within presence.
behind words that define us, thoughts
now flowing forward surround us
like pollen, like fallen
a vast symmetry of blossoming energy.
We speak of the life we had, of
the one we now have &
those we still want all
suspended at once.
One choice must destroy the others
in this moment
of each other
as it lingers
& the rest
cannot be expressed…
I’ve felt the soft surface of temporal fabric,
watched the world begin to fold
organic origami elide
rearing over what remained of
what was no longer me.
& sound waves of colour,
cold feathers began folding down,
nothing remained but space & light,
a deep divide
between body & mind,
quick flicker of panic
as all thought plunged into ice…
then it didn’t matter whether
I lived or died,
try to write
or if I
“…poetry makes nothing happen: it survives” -W.H. Auden
The wish to kiss your eyelids &
that heavy weight of images
forever haunting you.
You’re no Princess & I’m
I cannot rescue you &
you can’t rescue me.
I still so madly want to believe
“I am with you / and know how it is”*.
I know nothing of your suffering,
that yours leaves scars & so do mine.
I’ve nothing left to write about, except
that will not leave me:
a Guillotine quick & clean,
in the most golden
morning light we’ve ever seen in our lives,
leaving only beauty behind,
the beauty of suffering.
Until all that remains are the memories
that help you to
The weight of the rain cripples the name
of a person in a place
you swore never to forget or let
& the songs & the long moments
of hands twisting time with bodies
entwined in nights we wish would never die,
but all things move toward their end,
& yet time hasn’t taken us completely,
so there’s no need
even as we
let go of what once was.
Some nights we cannot see the moon,
but during others its
repeats the silver nights
precluding those golden mornings
& then when
the morning light made me choke as
how the gentle susurration blended
with the birdsong & the light
curved like the branches above us
skin within which poison blends with pollen
& flowers blossom before I pluck them
to place in your hair where
they will wither & die.
The past still lingers in the present,
& refuses to leave with the grace
of living things.
This is what regret means:
never to forget someone
knowing of all the lives that could have been;
for the last time.