moon, bright lamp
of grey,

sky, open and brave,
colossal dream of
drifting love,

sweet journey of
the night, lifting
her pretty head,
worn and unholy

like the falling petals of
the stars.

Fall to me, all you streets of Rome,
With your embrowned oils from torched walls and breccia of shadows,
The pizzicato of stairways and afternoon slowly closed
Like the thick, leathery-echo from this book of all roads.

Fallen, smoldering empire of storefronts and back-shop heirlooms,
Your lupine hills unbound with milk of cur in the wind and woods,
To your fallow fields rowed deep by a conquest of oars,
To the deepest silence and soot-muted oneness of Pompeii,
And a sky that is an ancient coin, without worth,
But still rubbed smooth at the edges by overfond lovers.

boy of dream,
the colours melt,

your lips finding mine,

beneath an ashy sky,
where the shadows lean,

your fire finds mine,
your kiss as beautiful
as a summer rose.

it was near the cricket field,
stitched into the ground -

amid clover and tufts of grass -
a little ring of white mushroom,

longing for the night sky,
for the journeying cloud,

sweetened by flower and dust,
where the little fairies danced,

balancing on the air -
weaving the moonlight like cloth -

with their drowsy feet
and wings of blue stalk.

in the dream he asked me if
i would like him to read me some of his poetry -

i said i would love him to and we
set off for his house -

but we seemed to keep travelling
left, although i knew his house was on the right,

and suddenly i was in the basket of a
huge crane, lifted higher and higher

600 ft, 700 ft, i couldn’t find jim
and i crouched down in the basket-

with my hands over my head -
and everything was like

edvard munch's  ‘the scream’
and then i awoke and all i could

think about was seeing jim morrison
and how i’d have liked him to read me his poems.

you are star, you are moon,
a blur of white in the rounded night,

tranquil as the narrow streets at nocturne,
where the tall streetlight breathes

its half-moon yellows, love flowers
behind frosty windows; behind

avenues of dark stone and gothic
eaves the dust of the moon

starts to settle, weaves a golden web.