Could we try it
Again, pouring Florida Water;
Reaping ingrown signals,
Mundane and silky,
Eyelid grey;
Natural in this state

Baby ginger, an ex sighting,
and an “I miss you”;
will I ever win;
maybe I already have

Painting with words

The ash in the wood burner is still warm white and esoteric
an unborn dream a sin to shovel into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to be strewn upon the tranquil sea
with the first drop of rain the ash in the bucket a dust cloud
disperse like souls in the forest but, as the shower increases
the ash drowns becomes silt when the rain stops, and the sun
warms crops the grieving has passed

Surveilled fluorescence at my temples,
Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.
This desolate white—arches forming at my cuticles,
Four dimensional, the Nile running through my body.
Sediment washes into silence;

grit settles in the gaps of my teeth, my eyelashes blacken.
Gummy cuts and chlorine burns.
Rubbery knuckles and the smell of gasoline.
Metal in my ear, ringing—

My sad is copper sulfate,
A blue shriek in my sternum,

A pressure frame inside me,
Too far away to burn him.

Leave my sad to crystallise,
Please just keep your distance.

Through my stalagmites of sorrow
Take the line of least resistance.

I carve companions from the rock,
Each one a salty clone.

I’ve made societies down here
To sit with my alone.

Like sparkling water, your breath punctuates every gulp—
Sharp and cold, I come back for more,
At your behest—like saffroned ice cubes on the eyelids.
A sober delight.

Scrubbing the grout in between the tiles with black salts,
Pale like drying sunscreen, piercing my palate with cedar—
Where did the subtlety go?