The Tailor

Knitted delights
make light work of
short change
and we’re poor again
in an instant.

These trembling fingers
rummage thread
as though to stir
it to waking,
and then it’s gone.

Prick and whittle
the mounds of
false flesh
so they hang
lifeless and keen.


The ghosts wear shawls
and I’m jealous of the noises they make.

The walls are tired and lean back
when I take a breath after moving around.

The dusted pots are only awoken
when the door snaps and we sing.

These terracotta clouds make
children of us all.

When you wake I will be gone
as will that sound that moves you.

Try not to dream;
the ghosts where shawls.

Blindness : Unfolding

My heel screeches on wood as the
clouds come up: I can feel their damp.

Ecstatic waves blow and blow to
make this bed a ship in storm.

Dew on my tongue and haste on my lips;
a train screeches a mile or two away.

The ground is a taut skin and it soothes me
as life in blood can soothe all in passing.

This dark keep is a warmth to adore
from now until the end; a blackness looming.