they fill in visions and repeat in sound
the touch of light on rock the moving shade
marking a changing time then the parade
of trucks and buses moving folk around
since we must hurry to get off this ground
back to our homes back to the normal trade
of simple speaking in words that are flayed
out of all meaning then twisted and bound
a short escape leads to another place
with older energies but the same tide
washed on that shore beneath a certain light
allowing these historians to trace
the roots of anger and the base of pride
straight to their homes in certainty and right

Poetry is poking through the ashtray
for the lost word I spit away
on the the last cigarette to make sure it was out
(because I sicken from smoke of burning cellulosic filters,)
distracted, tapping another growing ash
into a glass I'll surely sip from later
It'll cough out dry and chalky
from my fingers
they all go to the same place -
whiskey, cigarettes, words -
and presume to have meaning
when it's late,
making a game of speeding clocks
until they're bored and stagger home
to their closet under the stairs,
leaving me to wash their empty glasses
and sweep off the dusty pretensions
they've left on my desktop,
wishing I'd gone to bed earlier
or repotted some geraniums instead.

for a short while we sit and watch the sea
the ships that pass the people on the shore
and then turn back to what we were before

there's understanding here of what must be
a straightforward accounting of the score
for a short while we sit and watch the sea

smile at the world knowing that we agree
on the good things that no one could want more
than such warm moments till the final door
for a short while we sit and watch the sea

I am writing to you in tar.
It dries quickly on this leaf of paper;
the room is hot and dry,
I fear it may ignite.
It doesn’t feel right;
this makeshift pen is imprecise
try as I might
to colour within the lines.
I guess it’s me and you really.
The moment says what I mean,
not me. It bursts like
a Molotov cocktail when it wants to,
but until then it waits
and waits
and waits
until I need to say it myself,
and eventually I do,
but it's clumsy and in the end
I say things I don’t mean,
and then, and here’s the kicker,
I feel bad, not you.
So if and when you read this,
and the tar sticks your fingers together,
and the paper bursts into flames
and singes your hands,
don’t think of self pity,
because you’ve drowned
in that too much already.
Think of the times
when you’ve wanted to say something
but ****** up the delivery.
It will scorch your skin, and leave a blister,
and it will hurt, of course,
but I’ll have a damp cloth ready
if you want it.

Under the spread hazel's winter
umbrella hung with pale catkins
pulling at a black bin liner rubble
spilled, a little toad tumbles free
from under in turmoil of warty limbs.

A toad in this garden where is no pond
found a moist pocket of plastic pleats
and a larder of wood lice in the rotted
pile sits on my palm calm as a buddha
thoughtless, yellow-eyed, unidentified.

Later, returning for forgotten secateurs
he drifts down in the water *** I let in
to the ground, trailing a bubble stream,
an olive green indifferent nature god.
The lordly stars sustain his crawlspace.