...a sun bounces off my shell
the rained on attempt to hide
the damage the hurter from
inside my back is full of resin
and knots from a black apple
tree all the rivers show a new
face with old teeth and lips
that **** the failed light all
this makes me like a deep sea
diver grubbing in the silt of sudden
waves that soak the drinking loam
of a weakened birth as a sun bounces..

rain drinks my sight and makes my face the sea, i
am falling apart like a wet newspaper, this is not
friendly water landing in tin bucket on an autumn
evening when the lights outside flow too, this is
beyond cleaning and baptism, this might be the
end of the world, and so it should be.

Alone in a crowded room
                she whispers through
                her sharp cat's teeth

*count the rest of your life
in days you do the same things.
Imagine a space in the air
where I will never be

Whirls of wicker and calico,
                 of turf and salt,
                 of cats and fish.

The eyes of those
                 surprised by sudden depths
                 are bitter and open.

They drink sea under the glass
                 of a cracked tide,
                 in green tunnels of waves.

The water children flail under a sea moon.

The sea drags across the dark silt,
                 hear the bell, hear the bells.

You leave, but the snow finds you.
                  Cobbles reflect ice and steps.
                  ( The street is the back of a reptile).

You follow the snow,
                  the windows make you a saint,
                  you are in a church.

You are well-wrapped in cloth,
                  you stride with intent,
                  your heart is an unformed pump.

You are a fireplace, now cold and ashen.

I thought I heard steps in the house, but
it was the black tunnel of my own heartblood,
a flood in old caves,
the lost pulse of nightfall.

Smoke in my eyes.
I am as empty as an old suitcase.

Anywhere. Evening rain.

Snakes cross the road,
                    that is no longer an obvious place,
                    it cracks like old toffee.

Lost souls in nightgowns and slippers,
                    foam behind wire.
                   A dark tide bids

then waits of a gallery of small heads,
blue eyes devoid of doubt.

A world of broken signs