Yesterday I wondered if I were living someone else's life.
The eggs were not what I ordered. The bus was heading
the wrong way.
My clothes didn’t fit as they should, more creases and bulges than I knew.
In the mirror, that person didn’t even notice the button undone —
which I would have, had I been there. I would have un-undone it.
At work I was wondering what I was doing,
like an intern. Only I’ve been there eight years.
For a time I was an observer, a witness to one human figure moving
through the world holding himself small, like he was trying to
leave no trace but fading footprints.
And I wonder if this soul,
moving with unseen force, is the real me?
My mother would talk about grieving in terms of fog, or smoke:
surroundings obscured and reduced to a visceral myopia.
Until one day the veil lifts and you say to yourself,
“Oh! Now I see. I was asleep the whole time.”
Then I imagine the child, the adolescent, the adult, the loner,
the misfit, the connections, the work, the struggle,
the challenge, the belonging,
the realisation, the longing.
and I wondered whether I should awake from the feeling
of living someone else’s life, or whether I have been awake
the whole time.
and what a tragedy it would be to grieve for
that which has not yet gone.
And if I can figure myself to be some other,
can I not imagine myself complete?
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 3:00 PM UTC
You cut a dashing figure
between em and en and
oh, by the way
Your abbreviated smile
has me wondering what
it stands for
as I place my finger on
your ellipsis … you lead me on,
there is no doubt
I feel left out
But as we track and kern
our forms, ascending,
make ligatures to avoid
an overlap of strokes
a diphthong doth emerge
o’er our line o’ type
and what was once
paragraphed into separateness,
our thoughts juxtaposed
begins to merge
(bind in parentheses)
you’n’me make syncope
and, once the story forms,
the digraphs make shapes
with our mouths.
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 4:53 PM UTC
When I look at you I see your beauty
But when I close my eyes I see what you mean
Many things die with death
including uncertainty
All that time spent wanting to be found
means it was liberating to be lost
The world is neither with nor against you
It's simply what you make it
It’s easy to make hatred from a distance
It’s easy to make friendship in person
You can change behaviour by shouting
You can change a heart by listening
An invalid argument is valid
if enough people believe it.
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 4:28 PM UTC
The truth gets me excited
Lies make me sad.
The truth is cool and scary, like the ocean
vast, intense, buoyant and salvation
Lies fall like stone,
brittle-sounding, metallic and rusting
The truth holds up a piece of me,
pronounces, ‘it is,’ then
nothing further needs to be said.
Lies are speaking of the greater good
but heaven knows I’m the only one of matter
The truth elbows its way into the room,
boisterous and convinced and mothering,
Lies are squeezed and sullen, pushed to the back row,
suckling on comfort food
The truth is a jagged edge, untidy around a greater surface,
enmeshed with its surroundings and judgement.
Lies are like paper cuts, slow to mend,
and apparent even when they’re not noticed.
Even if I don't say it, or pray it,
or admit it to myself
there is no other home for me,
No sidestep apart from that which separates me.
See that grave-plot? Therein lies the truth,
that residual part
when all the rot and decay have left my heart.
What I am will outlive me,
the truth be told.
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 4:54 PM UTC
I live and breathe and think in this space
Work in this space
Pray and eat in this space
until you come along—you and your arms-wide space
heading to overlap me, drawing Venn diagrams around us, two
mapped inside a certain intersection,
almond-shaped, like your eyes
always looking upward—at me, or her, or the stars,
Eyes like mirror *****
illuminating the world’s dance floor
Steps bounding enough to motivate us both.
I am charged with your leap of faith,
opposites attracted and drawn across decades,
I invite you in, believing wholly in me
Knowing I can never make this space
big enough for two
Yet after the party we sit here in silence,
as only friends do.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 2:19 PM UTC
Neither are you here nor done
having slipped so quietly into the
great not knowing,
small strands of you still tied to my belly
the rest now illusory
although misleading
might be a better word for something that
draws such compelling lines to an
indefinite space.
If a lifeline holds me here, what do
I call the lines to you?
The paradox is, the death-line holds
me here just as much
Perhaps it binds me so securely to the nothingness
that I am held still,
safe, here, then
A short life, waiting to dissolve to meet you
A greater life, rested in your impression
A happier life, to have known you
only gone because you would be here to begin.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 4:37 PM UTC
Through pain and prayer I emerge
**** breath for the first time
and though I see not you, but a blur
I know you from the inside
hand held, I am walked with care
over linoleum and playground
and altar, to grow into myself,
cheek wiped. And then you let go
as all mothers must. But never leaving,
even when, ungrateful, my brittle ego
takes me far from you, pretending I can
find a space more sacred on my own
You gave me that dream.
And everything else—for you gave me life.
And although I must, trying to improve
on that is futile.
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 5:52 AM UTC
It’s getting harder to realise
the need to be driven
I want to be where the earth is
in a void, but always held
Stillness is the moments when the
crow and grevillea find me
Holding release, I think of you
in my bed and am flush warm
And I remember beauty, as if
it were there all along
Putting down my thoughts for a while
I pause, to let your memory catch up.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 2:27 AM UTC
Wouldn’t it be better to be deconstructed
blow apart those held-together pieces
seen as all those same parts,
spent of needs and dependency
each is worth its own weight,
bringing their gift to the whole
wouldn’t they make sense on their own,
more than all the sense I make together?
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
Everything has its place, and time. Some things, sometimes,
don’t want to be put away, they want to be visible and present,
so that when you are ready to notice them they will be there,
waiting patiently for your awareness.
The unwashed teacup is simply resting, until such time
as you offer the caress of your hands in a warm bath
of cleansing. There is no judgement from the cup, just
patience and contentment in its wholeness.
The open magazine, folded back on itself since
last February, has merely been spending time catching up
on missed readings, enjoying the imprint page and readers’ selfies
that are generally not given the time.
The ***** laundry on the tiled bathroom floor has a
real opportunity to co-mingle in ways
that a sorted chest of drawers or double-rack hang space
would never allow—so they too are grateful.
All waits patiently until such time as you,
sometimes gradually, sometimes suddenly,
are unburdened enough, attentive enough,
accepting enough, to respect each thing in turn,
and help each to find its place with you.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 7:40 PM UTC