the idea left us dancing.

use what is already there,
make do and mend, linen

threads hang heavy, needles
preserved. small holes ready.

shall we mend the rags, or
pin them onto wool pads
ready for discovery.

these are the planning days,
the filming ways, of
lifts and wild imagininings.

the tabernacle wales.
the tannery.

Needles of Yew

Lay a soft bed
Of years
Over a grave-

Green to Brown
To Yellow- a pleasing transition

Echoing

The change
Underground

I’ve left the oven on
for years.
Somewhere between metaphor and meaning,
something’s always been burning.

But no one’s eaten in a while.

They called it voice.
I called it
a slow confession wrapped in rhyme.
A sugarcoated breakdown.
Something easy to swallow
if you didn’t read too carefully.

They wanted brevity.
I brought blood.
They wanted truth.
I brought formatting errors
and a whisper shaped like static.

Do you remember the one
with the anti-light?
No?

Of course not.
You don’t remember the one who screamed last.
You remember the one who rhymed "heart" with "start"
and got 200 likes for it.

Now my name is on the box
but it’s spelled wrong
and the font is smiling too hard.

The cookies still crumble
but no one eats the edges.
That’s where the poison is.
That’s where I lived.

So I’ve folded the apron.
Swallowed the last word
before it could become a quote.

Let the gods of good taste keep their ovens.
Let the algorithm rot.

I’ve got shoeboxes full of unsent stanzas
and no more hunger
for applause shaped like echo.

my heart trembles,
I don’t tell her no.
Instead I point my feet
in your direction
and drink in the kindness
pooling in your eyes.