It is not pretentious to write about death

Death is in everything, it is in this cup

It is as common as a cauliflower.

Is it pretentious to write about a cauliflower?

I miss my mother and my brother

There have been no funerals

But they are sadly gone

Though people with the same names walk about the house and do the washing up, talk about the gardening and the bow and arrow they just made

These new ones are nice, and fun

But I resent them, for not being the mother and brother I knew

For dying so quietly, without telling me

In came sadness through the back door, and flooded

I miss my mother and brother

I am a dip on the wide, soft earth.
All forgotten what I'm for now, but I remember birth.

What am I?

A forest moving fast across the sea
You barely see me, yet I help you see

What am I?

Sometimes I do doubt my love for you
I think, will mine be true? will yours be long?
But when I sleep and when I really wake with you
I know that we are friends
I love our song

Forget it. Whatever you want
My dear. I'll spend it alone or on foot.
I'll go see some other fine lover, my dear
Don't think that I wouldn't. I could.
Oh early next month would be super, my dear
A holiday. No, no time at all
To wait. I'm terribly busy now, dear
Stay up in the hills. (Come home)

******* is wax and paper,
your love for me is kindling,
others have been oak.
and now my chest is full of ash
so roll me a cigarette
while i wait for the phoenix to rise

You love me like a child loves the light.

You love me like a fire burning kindling;

All too bright.

You love me, plum, and now the light is falling

Should I sleep? I'd only dream

I saw you

Wakeful, love , and whispering out the door.