somehow the world looks down on me.
standing central inside a garrison
of skyscraper's shadows
a concrete world s
liding down it's own walls-
until-
you are here- i am here
or so i'm told.

sometime ago i was here with you.
we bought a postcard and i dated it for posterity
amongst
buildings that climbed, clock faces that chimed
breathy airy floors split into windows outside-
doorways replete with someone to greet
own world in it's centre turned pinkish by heat
as the rest unfurled around us
and all we could do is look up.
i am here, i am here
looking up.

somehow this whole world looks down on me.
poor lonely soul wondering restless and old
i am here, i am here
so i'm told.

something fit.  something aligned under the breastbone
ribs pattered out and gave space for breath
that didn't taste of anything.  

something clicked.  tortured poet keeping a journal
walks the south route instead
and sees the spiritual spin on life through the stained glass windows
of a shack church in need of extensive renovation.
she is inspired and her need bottoms out for the day--

praise is good.
good.
great.    
don't bother me when i'm sharpening my pencils.
i'm preparing for divine intervention
and the clarity i know i'm owed

something hit. my words, hey, i'm black and blue
and they? they're cut through and through
with flecks of tracts lent from life and beyond.

reading my old poetry is like sampling
blood's flavour on the tongue
the uncomfortable metallic taste
of something in the wrong place
at the wrong time

sitting underneath her knee was a lent book of entymology
something about butterflies being caught and pinned
preserved in stasis for the sake of beautiful things
cold crisp leaf wings smoked behind the glass
of a cyanide bottomed killing jar
and in that half read book all she could glean
amongst the bones of writing so lean
was the feeling that you could lie flat and cold
and be a redolent beauty despite the lack of life-

days earlier
the talking therapy had been all right.
hey, there's a ton of treatment these days
medication and conversation and there's no need
to burrow yourself away.
so they talked about feelings
as if they were quietly observing the to and fro
independent little embryos growing opinions of their own-
the indignant insistence that these things,
these emotions have names, signs, triggers
and they begin and they end and curve again-
rising up from the flat of a typeset page.

a lawn of dust grew up around our graduation photo
as we started spending saturday mornings with a fresh head
buying the weeks produce from the farmers market
laid out on the pavillion where we used to blend evening with night
and a bottle of something.
now we drive with destination
and circle early mornings with a coffee in hand
every second of the day strategically planned.
we are visitors back home, driving away not for escape
we are travellers passing through

your slim volume taunts me
i am all flabby with words that wind
a convoluted sentiment
a never-ending pitch and bubble
of adjectives that collect around the waist
sag themselves down
to collect at my feet

and your spine is pin thin
straight. i am petrified at the sight
of your delicate sonnets
resting like slender wrists
that taper down to the profession of words
every word a counted fibre, lean
while i bulk up and on and become
obscene

when spring turns
cherry blossoms roll out their tongues
thirsty for this season of recovery
i join, flavouring my days
with their new perspective