They say James Heron has a daughter now.
He has done for a couple of years. Last time I saw him
we were drunk in the day, and the time before that,
we were eleven.
I spent that last fragment of innocence
sleeping in a thin duvet case,
hoping it would pass as a sleeping bag: it didn't.
Since then I have slept rough in softer places,
and he has been on harder stuff
than I could ever sustain.

They say Faye owns a green grocer's now.
She put green in her hair and became a vegan.
They say she's never bought a McDonald's
and avoids Palm Oil like crowded places.
When she was twelve,
she'd punch me on the arm just to prove
that she could make a mark.
Now, she treads so gently across the ground,
the sprawl of the supermarkets;
imminent in swallowing her whole,
and still she'll go quietly, quietly,
so as not to cause a fuss.

They say Rhys Campbell has a missing father
who left town and changed his gender;
now a mother of two refugee children
and in love for the first time in her life.
Rhys Campbell couldn't get past his tough-man image,
and so his mother lost a son
when regaining her life.
Now ol' Rhys lives in a high-rise
and descends to the pub,
gives into the drug, and batters his wife.
Thought I saw him once
but my eyes were a blur:
I was drinking through my unemployment,
whilst he had given up on work.

They say Amy Thompson lost her wedding ring
and by the time she found it, she had left him.
She fell in love with the idea of the sea,
how it nurtures her
through the breath of a baby.
Now she lives alone and dines out for one,
treating herself after years of divorce
from who she was,
who she had to be,
and the remnants of her teenage self,
hanging limp from a cemetery tree.

They say Jessica Reynolds stays inside,
determined to one day, move things with her mind.
She collects crystals and panflutes,
Tibetan bowls and scented candles;
braiding wallets for the hipster crowds
just to pay her way through art school.
She communes with the dead
as she talked to the flowers, aged eight;
always fairing better in silent conversation,
and those long vigils in the shower,
reciting words she would instantly forget
when shown a human face.

They say Jessica Reynolds is crazy.
They say Jessica Reynolds believes in fairies.
They say Jessica Reynolds is a closet lesbian.

Now I don't know much about anyone,
amongst the faders and my inattention;
my lack of memory for names and accents.
All I can do now is to keep track of the tracks
that I have parted from.
Our common unity;
our communal drum.

I want to write a pop song for you,
To spiral and loop in your head
As you apply your shampoo,
To constantly reappear
Through the airwaves,
Drowning out your lunch break
With force-fed thoughts
Of you and I
In that wet afternoon,
That train-stop goodbye;
Darling you were the last breadcrumb
I ever thought
Would leave me behind.

Do you take the path of least resistance to get through the day?
Do all those leaflets make zero sense to you, too?
So you take a beeline route to avoid
anyone that is trying to sell you something;
the missionaries by the charity shop,
old lovers in the beer garden-
do you take worn paths only to lament
the lack of changing scenery?

Do you get ****** up just to calm down?
Do the seasons creep up on you, too?
In one moment, are you walking through the autumn leaves,
only to find yourself buried in snow?
Buried in the hue of the darkest blue,
where only melodies can reach you beneath the soil,
a tone-deaf beat that gives cause
for you to wait out the winter,
until something starts to give,
until something comes to change,
until the old warehouse of memories
is finally rearranged.

Do you miss the moments that matter
only after they do not matter anymore?
Do you always hope for friends
only after you have locked every single door?

I followed the glitter he
left on the floor. Where
ever he walked it seemed
to come out of the pores
from his skin. Leaving me
craving for more. It looked
so pretty and shiny. Never
in my life have i knew that
such beauty could exist in
a person like you* ~

After “lo fatal”

When I read you first I was living in Bergen.
Pretending at translation
and going up scree, clutching at conifers
in a painted flaxen sun.

I'd imagined you’d given up on being Modernista
to settle for a quaint shack—
for the hardness of the carved fjord.

Now if you were to arrive in the wild
where I have kept this place
strangely similar by the pine, blue herons,
               Mount Ozzard over the dandelions,

how would you come walking down the road?

Would deer pause to smell your tracks
or the cedar cutter look up as he heard you pass,

or these coal-black snags
which guard the lot’s entrance
          and haven't swayed in so long
groan?

Dichoso el árbol, que es apenas sensitivo.
Happy is the tree, you said. Scarcely sentient.

Ruben Dario: what is the tree
which rushes through this poem?

Moon

Moon-- roughly
the size of a cantaloupe.

Whom eyes have chafed on,
not perceiving any pain.

Moon, but not quite Li Po's:
Many hungry are below you

hung, paused as if thinking
on the paths to your glaciers.

If I could just walk alone in fields of high green
I’d know just enough to relax my weary mind
I won’t have to wonder about where to plow
What was planted in the past will show me how

I wanted to feel the green leaves cover my life
Laying down where breezes are born to love
And bare feet hear the first cries of nature
I let my knees fall upon themselves in a new way

I realized I was inside you as soon as I stood up
There was only one thing that I was looking for
Everything that I dream of is about that moment
When I am no longer afraid to show you my face

But when you bloomed into something new
I wondered why I could love someone so much
Looking back there is always something missing
Except for the times when you loved my life