Skewered and opened like an umbrella,
in full spin and dangerous
to look at with the naked eye,
he took to skyscrapers
with his special suction shoes
to prove there was nowhere
he couldn’t dance.
April storm
Some machinery became stuck
in the fields
in the mud
in the muck
yet the trees grew and birds flew
it did seem we were to be swallowed
like the earth was in a hurry
to reclaim
its dark wood and delicate leaves
so tender-light
and stronger than us.
Petra
Nights are long enough
to dream of Petra
without Knowing the salt of the desert
or the cold of a tomb,
leaving empty arms for morning
but a smiling memory fragment
of what was held so close
in the exploration of dreams;
we were there,
in sun and dust,
laughing over myths,
making our own stories.
Once upon a Monday,
there was no cause to mourn,
the battering of seas
against her hull ebbing,
a warm wind of change buffeting,
almost as if a few of her wishes
had been heard
and were left to fall
into her open hands.
Addicted to fog
I brush aside
apologies followed by
the same behavior.
One day feels like a thousand years.
Giving over
to nature’s righteous bells,
I insist on shadow play.
To be kept hidden, to be kept,
they made me their construct,
curves devoid of flesh.
I don’t see this as fiction.
I am more or less
a whore in sheep’s clothing,
taking my tea alone.
