For someone who does nothing
but look up to everyone,
his gaze
stays firmly on
the ground.

the wind slips her under the awnings
and she yawns; shudder, and the doors shut.

she slept through the downy mornings of spring; her resting
in summer's thorny evenings
leaves her with a bed of brittle buddleias
and moonglades in the puddles.

I
turn,
yawn, stretch,
awaken,
but only in bed;
in life, I am still fast sleep.

she
sleeps
and dreams
of goslings,
dewbows and moonbeams
and all imaginary things.

Dear dreams,
I have lost you.

I have lost you to bruised necks
and the serenades of long-dead poets,
to car crashes and shipwrecks;

in a place where lust and hunger lingers
between these trees I've lost you
to blistered fingers;

oh god, why is it always winter?
I have lost you to broken necks
and eyes that splinter.

there is nothing so small
as leaves groping
at the warmth of summer
in its penultima;

one final wane before another year
until the first thrill of petrichor