She was the sort of person
behind whom a door never closed forever.
It was always on the latch, on the jar,
in case she would think to turn around
or a cry would call her back.
But now the door is closed forever
and locked and bolted by another hand
with we remaining hammering on the metal
and she silent beyond.
lines criss cross alive
the sound of quiet breathing
in the centre you
tension electric
air and fingers spark
at the corner you
Afternoon evening
Thoughts jumping back and forward
Where were, shall we be?
recycle the words
words recycle
reuse the words
the words
reduce
“Summer is coming”
spray tan smiles don’t reach her eyes
winter still lives here
conversation stills
music in another room
Monday is too soon
nightingale morning
air glass cold
cloud-free sky warning
fortunes untold
Seventeen is my lucky number.
It is how old I was when
that thing
happened and look
who’s laughing now.
My lucky colour is bright red.
It’s not my favourite but it is the colour of
that thing
happening
the colour that stays in my head.
You are my lucky person.
You found me one night after
that thing
happened and since then – well, you know.
the wolf bites the moon
wisp clouds mask red nakedness
shadows on my mind
