Open like a split pig
Halved and open-ribbed I

Survey the place between
The firs. Brown growth and

Broken stems, dumb as a
Turning , fail to fill the space

You took, Summer has fallen
Off its ladder and you have left

shrapnel of a black heart
they pick at worm-strings,
pulling out curves from

the green above the sleepers,
like punks they barge and
rotate like bits of children

while I stutter in grief and ice;
bricked in, walled up, dead down.

an old car with rusty brakes,
models, the Eiffel Tower, a zeppelin
combs, a toothbrush, muddy sandals,
posters of sunsets and other better worlds,
a souvenir mug from Venice, an unmade bed,
handwritten notes, letters unanswered,
a ghost that wamnders through my veins

and the present of your life

a maze of strict wood
dark moss that begs for steps
silent and loyal

you birth again the lost
green a half life, rest alone
under the stars

more ever than the cold moon

a chaser of the moon
a hunter of the stars
weightless as a night owl
silent as the dark is long
a builder of boats and planes
clever and wordless within himself..

so when time faults and darkness looms
and sleep evades us in the cold hours
you are here, you are there
so wait for us...you are not lost

the speedphone in your head
sparky and light trailed,
as a dancer with closed steps
you open doors in the night;

sometimes a ghost, a lost thought,
your pages are torn and mixed, you're
burnt as a nut, a failed paperchase
of loose  clues, brillant and wild
running with the comets to dawn

a filtered light strained and old
that hangs over us man crawlers
we are loaded with slow blood
we jaw-jaw over evening circles ;

empty as a watering can in august
up and up the garden, down down
we hammer the green into squares
as we think we may, foolish with dust