A poem falls short; I'd like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it's still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can't.

Pay phone change
48 hour flights
waiting up to hear your voice
monastery bells tolling at dusk
words that are crisp upon the air
war stories told many times over
the blur of life on the other side of the window
my cold hands
kohl rimmed eyes
light through blue stained glass
lazy lovers
nostalgic chord progressions
that dress that you never wore
watery footprints on the pavement
the abandoned shoes on the telephone wire
the marquees we'll never remember
rose-tipped clouds
the way he looked at her, as if it were the first time
silhouetted palm trees
and thoughts
too small to be voiced

in the shutter of my camera.
in all the worn holes in my cardigans.
in the smell of your cooking.
in the sound of cutting strawberries.
in the turning pages of all the anthologies.
in the broken windows.
in the crumbled sheets.
in all the songs I hear.
in the place where you used to sleep.

We did not always feel such insistent tugging
on the sleeve and so we did not remember
to cherish time until the moment had passed,
the memory marooned,
its breath grown short within
the parentheses of its existence.

This love burns and drips

an unclean **** knot
******* and *******
at tailgate parties in basements
where everybody is satisfied
except for one...

The sky is painted static:
I can't find the channel.

A frail cherub descends
gossamer threads of maize splay out about its head
brings the sky back with it
and in hues of pink and life,
restores me.

now there's full green and truly honest leaf
on both our maples so we say the spring
has really come and hearts may duly sing
of happy changes and complete relief
for though we know that every joy is brief
and what hard messages each day may bring
for this short time at least some bells should ring
allowing us forgetfulness of grief
what we each know is not all that is known
beneath the sun of that at least i'm sure
there's more to life than simple blood and bone
nor is the world one giant ghastly tomb
for see the rose and iris are in bloom

Through dreams I learnt to live
And in waking how to die
The golden hand of the morning sun
Would pull, tear and rive
Culling my verve, plucking life away
Time spent nether the burning sun
Never seems worth staying awake

I have seen the land of roses
Whilst skimming the blue tract
I know how Albion looks
Two hundred metres up

Towers that sink into the soil
Transposing themselves as trees  
All wonderful things i have seen
Through nightly visions and dreams