In the sheets of drizzle below the autumn cloud
eyes beaming with the glow of love
wave at the receding figure
to the farthest visibility.

The man leashed to the cubicle with the screen
would think of those faces
when the day is at its broadest invitation
and light like the luminous ether
fills every dark pocket of the land
listening to the rhyme of the clock
from his abyss of ratios and rates
while the vagabond clouds come together
and break apart in the game of revealing blue
painting new faces and waving hands
on the landscape of the gate
up to the farthest turn
in the sheets of drizzle
beneath the autumn clouds.

It smells like loneliness outside.
The smell of a hot dog on a grill after a storm,
mingled with propane and cigarettes.
The smell of solitary.

A string of “cold and broken hallelujahs”
no longer dulls the senses.
It’s senseless anyway.

I eat my brown rice in front of the sink
and I am reminded of the taste of Play-Doh.
It’s funny how loneliness creeps in on the wind,
the cars’ wheels in the rain,
the braking of the bus,
scuttling of squirrels...

Maybe a hot tea or toddy
(maybe something stronger)
will keep this autumn-ness at bay.

In the deep dark dusk of August

When the wind was still warm

This little bird was the only witness

It awoke early before the sun

Just like any other go getter would

Only to witness

The fall of a beautiful soul

you are younger than i ; stride out  quickly.

it is my birthday walk down the estuary. it

is good to hit the sunny patch and hear

the bird call.

a cold day,  november. we decide to

turn, return.

you mention that we had come far,  it seems

that you are walking faster.

or am i lagging behind. now.

sbm.

there are no photographs.

if i were at home today,

i would light the fire

ready

for the day.



i am coming to meet

you from the train,

the railway line

along the coast.



we will drink tea,

and i will show you

the brooches.



sbm.