the tension in
stressed blackwood
skinned wing

of a sparrow
the clean knife
of a december wind

all this
all this
steps on gravel
the night's last

stepping at the sun
with written ankles
our lips divided

as the sun profiled two faces
the passing of a warm stone

ash-teethed                                  milk-eyed
a hunter's shadow                      baby round
climbing down                            nail new
wet cardboard                             lover tested
street runner                                packed and bound
so down the dark road               sleeping sea

the distanced grunting
of schedular lovers
the smell of toast at doors

an early child
screams at the rain
church bells demand

that crows attend the boxing
while streets are as empty
as a doll's eye

a week later

now spectral in mist
a corner child in circles
well versed in slides and swings

pleasured in unoiled hinges
and the soft giving of sand
you are rain on tiles

lost from the back of my eye
you hide in evenings

A collection of sights
Four gardens and a heathen cat
Trees of submission, open grass

(Hamnet still locked in light, somewhere)
Stretched hours nearly closed
(Perhaps a hint of him, hidden)

Word-strings up from the street, ignore
Hands of children, windmills
(Tomorrow maybe, just a chance)

Grillsmoke, childpipe, pulled seconds
Blue-white flags punish wind poles,
Somewhere a door bangs shut
There is distance but only just

You may be punished to see a ghost
Crossing a garden of hard borders
Or a hand on an unknown task
Pulling at greenstuff or wild roots

Bees hum like steady diesels,
Someone laughs with falsehood
This is what  we want to own
Under an expected sky.