Skinned knee, tree-barked knuckles,
fights in the long grass pal.
Friends so long that we've our own,
private language
(which renders these public outpourings
largely irrelevant)
and can go years, now,
with no contact
yet never really be apart.

Last Christmas we hooked up,
marvelled at the passing of time,
and you recalled that the last time we met
I gave you a book of my poems.

"Did you read them?" I asked,
and brilliantly, unembarrassed,
you replied:
"No.  I looked at the first one,
saw that it went over the page,
thought: 'Oh, that's long -
I'll read that later,'
but I never did."  
And we laughed uproariously
as I seldom do with anyone else.

But I know
that long after every other copy
has been thumbed ragged,
misplaced,
passed on
and lost
your copy will remain
pristine and safe
on your shelf

Because although you have
no more interest in poetry now
than either of us did at the age of eleven,
you'll look after it
because your pal wrote it.

Cracks creep
Snakes on the wall
Into the darkest patches
Where the light fails

From my bed, I can see
The shadows of the lizards
And the damp
In the trees

I can see the corners of the bed posts
And the humming of wasps
They have a nest near by
Fierce

I can taste the corners of the world
From my bed
I can feel the cracks
Creeping

I can hate the very deepest darkest split
In the paint
And vow to get it fixed
Someday

Or I could sleep
But that’s no good when there’s
Dirt on your shoes
And there’re no flowers this time of the year

I can see around corners
From my bed
But the snakes creep higher
And the trees become damper
And the sky sinks down down deep in the ground

And it comes back up, around all the corners
Clutching diamonds.

When the sound of your parents talking about politics over powers your sense of right and wrong

And the sounds of treebranches clashing outside your window drowns out the song on the radio

Every strand of hair on your head makes noise against the next as you drag your fingers through in frustration

And your skin is tired and you can hear the sound each time you blink, each time your eyelids kiss

When your breath hits the glass of your mirror like a fist on skin, it leaves an opaque patch, like a bruise deeply spreading

When your words hang in the air like icicles and you wish they’d turn to steam because they’re stabbing everyone they can reach

And then when your feet stop clicking, padding and stamping, and your heart stops faltering, flying and clapping

And your lips part to let out a stampede of words all tripping over each other

That’s when
And only then
It’s time to switch the light off.