Fire and mortar
Dust to dust
The sky stained red
From ashes and rust
The flames reach new heights.
They lick the sky,
Burning new trenches.
I wish I could say why.

I wear oversized sweatshirts
They feel more comfortable than your tiny tank tops.

My jaw feels likes it’s wired shut when I speak about you.

I think Grandpa knew what dying is
Would he have understood as a child
how it goes, what it means?
Unfortunately, he was unable to explain it to me

He slipped away, slowly quickly

In Rouen, I saw a painting
with yellow light: two boys
in a boat, a candle at their feet

cut lame and bandaged
Their story has become an image
of dying: the crossing

the mind loses its sharpness
volatilises in mists over the water
It is romance, there is no boatman
punting, but there is an other side

cutting my finger and it hurts
breaking a bone and it hurts
hitting my head and it hurts
you refuse to love me and it bleeds