Hi there Poet,

Your presence is always precious
here in my home,
Whether it’s lovesick confessions
or a need to not be alone.

These white walls and boxes
to which you can write any sins away,
or to just play dally with linguistic foxes,
to make quicker a boring day.

To scrawl out words black
to find redress and re-rhyme,
to release and not hold back
to find home-truths, to take your time.

I can take you at your word
be it dishevelled, battered or grey,
your weary voice can be heard
to make some weight fall away.

But now Dear Poet
it’s time to end this tune,
you’ve written a new one? Well show it,
the one hidden in your drafts since June.

you passed by the river
and the reflection was cast on
my curve of bank.
the current
lost it’s strength at the mouth
like words whispered in defeat.
were it not for my knowledge
of those who have drowned
i would be breathing the reeds and water
and beating against the overflow.
i think it’s human nature
fight for something
for the only thing we know.

like-a-night-terror
slip pin g  out of vie w
                                  the words elude.
  so keep there
the                 eyes
     unfocused
at paper or/// screen till the sentence---- rushes into sight.    
              break it.
                        ^^                  butcher it.
     keep it.<<      >>  analyse it.
  toss it .                                         kiss it.

where w a  s it?                  was it ee ee e even here?

a tremor in the night
awoken without the memory
(all poets say is a million different "I can't love you any other way.")
of a line i wanted to write.