wet ink is a constant river
weaved with octopus fingers
running back home to the sea
salt water drinks your poetry
a small song riding her waves.

I remember
        the rain, the
way it
       fell in
waves I
             tried to
cling to, press my
           lips into
its deep blue
as if that
           might make
things new but it
went on
           undisturbed
in
its path
towards Earth,
           a mystery
concealed
inside
         every drop
that
I was powerless
       to stop.

there's a boat
     moored on
an
empty shore,
too
                old to
be
cared for
              like these
bones
             bought &
sold many
              times
before,
worked
into a fine grind,
a pestel
                & mortar
kind where
souls
          are traded
for
pennies
over time, halved
now
              like a lime,
stripped of
what made
them
                      shine.

there were tears,
many, they
flowed regularly
from
porcelain bowls
down drains
I'd hoped
would separate
the pain, cleanse
them, make them
water again,
free to roam
amongst
their own in salt
lake streams, banks
bursting at
the seams with
ripe green,
so different to here
where all they've
ever known was
fear, housed behind
eyes, between ears,
counting each
shallow breath
like they were
anticipating
their death.

there was a
          house we
didn't visit,
no detail
           beyond
four walls
           & a door,
we looked for
a map
       but were
forced to
         resort to
our own
      crevices
& pores,
      subconscious
grid works
              so dimly
lit we vowed to
         clear the
mist,
keep on riding
           through its
endless
abyss.