What conceit is this
that dares to miss
that which I instinctively
keep at bay
to imagine your smile,
see your joy,
and regret their loss
complicit as I am
in their absence.

To salute you in ode
and traffic in the angst
your absence engenders
all the while
holding back,
safely in the shadows,
from behind the door
as you enter the room.

A word would end it,
this separation of fates,
this darkness
that veils my presence
and keeps us apart
yet silent I remain,
lost to you,
a rumour of existence
and no more.


I miss the towers and the temples;
their glories and their aspirations,
the rain that falls with grace,
tin blessing upon silver sorrow.

Your brave face and proud streets
of tiny champions keeping pace,
along the Boulevard uncommon hopes,
chastised follies and wispy fears.

Within you the songs of forests,
rivers as soft and long as dreams;
and longer still the path I wander
returns once parted, now loved anew.

To long for home, my boughs and wonder,
reciting names of those surrendered.
How can the homesick hope to recover
their sense of steeple, croft and thunder?

To the soul now lost which held benighted,
the keys to home and all else inside it.
From one who raged, my worth derided;
I remained when you departed.




we’re always searching
in the dark,
for a space
just large enough
for the two of us,
safe and uninvadable,
cocooned together
we live one life
together separated
only by mere
time and distance

we believe that
experience is shared,
that we are
the same person
living two lives
each deserving
in the other’s stead

born under
the same moon
we struggle
to make sense of our suns,
our difference
trading stories,
updating our experience
we fail to see the cracks

time conspires,
and years later
I will catch a glimpse
of my life
as led by you,
half certain
I would have chosen
my coat, your life

our experience
once twined
now stranded,
our threads
stretch out
along parallel lives
once known
may function

A Celebration

winter’s close lingered to include one
final death
and sighing shovelled graveyard dirt
into the hollow tower
itchy hearts worried prayer beads
clacking silver sins
while muggy tiles pushed all thoughts of
cleanliness aside
the blistered darkness echoed with soft
bruised consolations
grizzled celery scooched unceremoniously
next to pale tomatoes
my brash knife organizing perfect
polite piles of grief
this ticklish love an illusion, levitating
a prone sleeping form
held up by the tinny brace, celebrating
this prone sleeping woman
frozen desire weeps into the foundation
cracks, caves, collapsed


They harvested hope, plucked stars
from an unsuspecting sky.
A sickly harvest, diseased lovers
drowning in a sea of care.
Love broke inside them, crescent cutting
through their bespoke locks.

The crescent of madness crept across
the astronaut’s thoughts.
The astronaut’s wife, despair’s calendar,
pages filled with fraught and fear,
The tide marked its calendar on the beach
in rings of rotting weeds.