Black Stone

Cold, black stone is befitting

of this void where once

white light ahead

seemed possible,

only to discover that the

green forewarned

the sickness

that would come from

black, once a gift,

now a curse.

Upon the Wind / What is Soft

Upon sharp wind

a cold indifference rides

and in is tendrils

what is soft is turned

to that same sharpness

of the breeze

and the biting which results

finds no home in difference,

only in the same,

and tenderness is

bid good riddance

and turns upon the wind.

Open Mouth and Closing Eyes

Once,

a time when open eyes

preceded open mouths,

and

all would stay in sight and conversation

– intertwined,

until the last,

with closing eyes.

Now,

open eyes look only

upon silence

for the most,

and disentanglement besides,

until the last –

and open mouths

are left agape by open eyes

which

do not wait to see them.

Outrunning

At every moment with you,

I have been

outrunning the clock,

outrunning the truth

and

outrunning my usefulness,

with every step.

Shipwreck

This voyage must

– at once –

come to change its course,

fighting tides

and embracing winds,

or else

run aground –

a shipwreck.

Only Bone

Vultureous,

you have picked

and picked,

taking all you need

and leaving me with

only bone,

as only bone,

sculptureous.

Out to Dry

Like a wrung sponge,

a waterless riverbed,

a wasteland of sand,

like a dripless tap,

I have been rinsed

of all my water,

of all my usefulness,

and hung out to dry.

Albatross

Wrapped around my neck,

you are an albatross

more inclined to

killing than

to death,

and I am a

sailor realising,

as the waves begin to rise,

that I am not only

unable to

breathe,

but also that

I cannot swim.

Pluck

If only the dream

of colourblindness

would come true,

so that I might miss

my greenness –

sick with envy,

the blue

in my saddening chest,

the black hole

you leave me in always,

the yellowing

of my cowardly centre –

every colour,

all better ignored.

The pure white truth,

however,

is that short of any grey gifts

that allow me

to deceive us both,

it may just be simpler

to pluck out my eyes.

Flags

While I surrender

my usual rules,

the things I need to say,

my feelings,

until only white is left

on the wind,

you look away

and make waves of red,

but I am the one

who is bleeding.

In the Course of Things

In the course of things,

you maul,

account for nothing,

fail to try,

catch anything but -,

hear only music,

adventure on without -,

cast off and bite,

forget the mornings,

in the course of things.

Press Play

Press play –

we already know

how the story goes,

and the closing credits

become no easier to read,

simply because they are

further away.

I Might Appear / Say My Name

No wonder you no longer

say my name;

if you ever took

a moment

to look at yourself,

and then spoke it out loud,

I might appear,

and then you would have to

acknowledge us both;

a risk

you are not willing to take.

Try / Whistles

Try as I might

to let you off the hook,

I fumble,

and deafening whistles

precede the moment when

I am tackled to the ground,

or hit

with a swift kick that

sends me skyward,

leaving me red and yellow,

while you remain

unscathed,

scoring points

you don’t deserve.

Tired Eyes

My eyes are tired

from looking for you.

My arms are tired

from holding you up,

throwing out clues,

and dragging myself over the edge

when I discover,

once again,

that you are not standing there.

My eyes are tired

from looking for you.

My legs are tired

from walking much further than you have,

in an attempt to

meet in the middle –

a middle far closer to where you began,

and a millions miles

from where I did.

My eyes are tired

from standing in the dark.

My arms are tired

from reaching.

My legs are tired

from standing alone.

My eyes are tired

from looking for you.

Good at Ignoring

You are not bad at reading cues,

you are good at ignoring them.

You are not bad at hearing what’s said,

you are good at ignoring it.

You are not bad at taking hints,

you are good at ignoring them.

You are not good at seeing cues,

you are bad at caring about them.

Bad Archer / Bullseye

You are a bad archer,

missing the target every time,

but somehow

finding a bullseye

in the centre of my chest.

You are a poor dancer,

forever miss-stepping

and out of rhythm,

forever standing on me

without noticing.

You are a weak weightlifter,

failing with each push

to lift me up,

and yet

expecting me to carry

everything for you.

You are a bad archer,

finding a bullseye

in the centre of my chest.

Write – And – Because

Write it all down,

so that you don’t

–

and instead of

–

and to make easier

those moments when

–

or else you will

–

and then it will be

too painful or too late,

like a

–

because you did not

write it all down.

This Too – A Haiku

Fear not the heartbeat

that pounds and sickens inside,

for this too shall pass.

Whiplash

Perhaps on this unending

uphill journey to nowhere,

instead of

slamming on the brakes

and ricocheting me into

whiplash,

you could do me a kindness

and flip the car,

or simply drive us

off the cliff.

Continue to Stitch

Wait for the hole in the fabric

to get smaller,

and you will find

all that happens

is the tear gets larger.

Continue to weave the fabric

in which the damage sits,

and you will find

the rip seems far smaller

with each and every

new stitch.

Spiral / Second Thought

Though you cannot see,

your spiralling time

drags me downward too,

from the first second,

in a second,

crashing to the bottom.

And yet,

worse than the collision,

is to find that

when you build up

your momentum,

once again,

I remain on the ground

watching you rise to the top,

leaving me in a second,

without a second

thought.

The Art

If this is an artform,

but you put nothing

down to be studied,

what am I to say in return,

and how can I give

anything more than silence

when you seek my response

to the blank space

which you leave hanging

on the walls between us?

At Once

At once,

something to behold

or be held in the light,

and otherwise

formless and deformed

in the dark.

Both and,

clearer still,

neither,

until the worst of all

takes hold.

Then all is lost.

Grief is Love Without

Grief is love

without purpose,

without compass,

without mooring,

without map.

Grief is love

waiting at a station

for a train

that will not come,

with a ticket now invalid,

regardless.

Grief is love

that leaves no footprints,

even when it

stands upon your neck.

Grief is love,

grief is love,

grief is love,

without.

Taken The Same Things

You have taken time,

like a broken clock;

robbed interest and attention

as though you were standing centre stage.

You have been a thief of care,

all too carelessly,

and wise thoughts

without a thought.

You have taken all that has been given –

all except one thing:

every hint I have

dropped,

by way of silent begging

that I might

take all the same things

in return.

Inclined

You are inclined to

make decisions which to

me are wasteful and

sad to behold.

Under Brick

I cannot hear the walls fall,

nor the snapping of rings

and ties and links,

if you fail to draw them

to my attention,

for it is not my place

to search through rubble

and scramble

to fix old connections or –

indeed

– beg for those

long owed

from when the walls still stood,

pretending they had

no intention of

crumbling,

and it is not my job

to fill your silence,

which comes once you are buried

under brick.

Touch is Not

The touch is not a lie,

but nor is it a signal,

or at least not as wanted,

and what is said

is not a sign

that the touch is not electric,

or at least a welcome warmth.

One of Us is Gone

One of us is gone;

pretending to be present,

while the other

grapples with your ghosthood.

One of us is standing still.

One of us is gone

without warning;

rather,

without admission of their

omission

from existence in this place.

One of us is waiting.

One of us is gone.