traces of snow, black earth, roots
of devils hands that grasp at frost,
walls stenciled with cold growth,

a far dog coughs open a winter sunday
but we are scared to peek under the crust,
so we tick and turn, waiting for

a dark better than this, come soon...
the light of your eyes has become
pale and diffuse, here and longer in ice

A girl with red hair sits in a cafe. She writes a letter, then pauses to tap her pen against a coffee cup. She sighs and then pushes her hair away from her forehead, then glances over the tables.By chance, her eyes meet,as if she is looking for help.

The next day. Sie is reading Heidegger and looks very alone. All this might be conceived coincidence.The cafe smells of damp coats and steam. I move my chair slightly to look at her. She pretends not to notice.

A week later. She is no longer here, but her removed presence warms the near pathological emptiness of the cafe. Outside I see commuters sheeping towards the station, and more life gets lost in sleet. I hope to see her again, but she has gone.

the third of january saw this;

the moon is a stone in the sky
and the night a blanket of holes,
the rain an error of clouds
and the stars a coda of cats;

this day told me;

you are hidden behind your face,
all your words are coded like scripts,
your body is full of lines,
you are paged inside yourself

a cold moon, but
ten winters ago
it was encased in more ice;
the stars roll out
of a dark nest,

we slip with care
through snow,
down to the road,
we watch the ghosts pass,
there might be snow foxes
in the lost copse,
careless with cold

the back of a mirror,
leaves turn into flames
and after the walking

you shake your coat like a wet dog;

the rain waters your smile,
you trail autumn into the hall

an animal in my fireroom,
amen of charcoal and dance,
a borrowed sun glowing like want

then cold as far hills,
lost the engine of passion's eye,
heart's turn, lost dark love

autumn rain is akin to black tea
the burnt yellow of old growth watered

a train shakes the fields, an old carpet snapping
birds shoot holes in the turbulent sky ;
the world is split like an apple,
your head inside a bell

when it is over it is not over,
the air hums with steel,
too many eyes are in the undergrowth.
evening's calm as brittle as toffee;
shocked from coal and smoke,
a heartbreath along rails