Lost touch |      | The folders and the files | made of stone | water | lisping from a hero’s mouth | the space | rendered solid | the distance | frozen in blocks | like ice, but warm… |     | or warmer, in May |      | with young green |      | Cast house |      | sound on the bare stairs | the carpet lifted | paint |     | spatters on the floorboards | and the stereo |      | pigeons |      |

descending |      | the ghost with no shoes |      | the way back lost, but the way there | never-ending

couldn’t drag me | away… | Pausing |     | looking up |      | waiting for the other

Extruded silence |      | Drop |      | Coming home |      | Bumping into | the lodger

Ferns | out of the enamel |      | Across the wire | the fox-shit and dragonflies |      | and in feathers’ | tornado angel | turning |      | through the twisting snow | the echo | the wild horses


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Advertisements