Storm Drain

The bones of fish are greatly missed when teeth

are filled with food. It’s a cartoon tragedy we

even need to speak at all. The lighthouse is

so similar, with its skittish bravado that

oscillates to those uncaring few. Brick

and mortar that is mere causation;

a recipient of happening. To them

we are but grey blots against

green, in mist that flares

periodically and dances

on the groaning

passing of




In this grotesque
This rigid beast
We proselytise
To a ceiling, vaulted and gay
Bandage my wrists
Find an open window

These clouds
Are our pillowed grace
Bruise knees
Find oaths that remain
Money is chaos of sound
As it bounces from this ground

In disgrace
Finds me wanting
A door to another
Lifted space
These spirits sing like angels
When they weep