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.

Comfort Zone has a sale on:
Live no lives for the price of one.
Admittedly, it's not a good deal
but I'm always there, always browsing.
One bedroom comes with a comfy bed and TV.
Buy now and get a year of solitude
absolutely free.
Of course I could always shop around -
one more year at Comfort Zone
or should I switch my life provider
to Grow The Hell Up? Maybe The Real World?
After all, they do have benefits for new customers:
I checked with Real World and they offer
three years agonising anxiety, but guaranteed success
(small print: success not guaranteed).
Real World offers free training
in socialising, public speaking,
dealing with catastrophic failure.
But Comfort Zone does have that bed and TV...
Plus it's a great anti-aging cream:
I'm twenty-three going on fifteen.

One word of advice:
If you do try to leave Comfort Zone
they will call you,
send you letters,
bribe you with better deals,
slander their competitors.

When you do switch to Real World,
just go.
Leave Comfort Zone
and never let them know.

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.

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

"I don't want to be in a box in the ground,"
you cried; I sat nearby
as the snow fell.
"But we all become the earth -
when we are no longer here,
we are everywhere"

Is it summer yet outside?
the last time i saw
ashes in the breeze
blossoms and swallowing bubbles
for release
i cant stay here forever

i mouthed the words
and hid from them
buried under books
i would have branded myself.

i replaced autumn with your eyes
and the emptiness of summer will replace you


(and) I still miss the starlight.

Nature, my goddess;
I stand in the plague of custom and of nations -
I am fourteen moon-shines.

Dimensions of nature
take fierce, dull, stale, tired land:
Our Father's love is the ******* word,
my legitimate invention.

I grow; I prosper now.

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

Sorrow is right beside my bedroom.
I daren't go in at night
or even acknowledge it, most of the time.
But sometimes, like standing on the edge of a cliff
and fearing I might just jump,
I stare inside.
The window opposite
looks over a beautiful garden.
I've heard so much about that view,
If only I could cross the room.

If joy were a room it would have no walls,
no door,
just a welcome mat
in the middle of an open meadow
and a picnic blanket.

Like standing on the edge of a cliff
and fearing I might just jump,
I jump.
With my picnic blanket parachute
and my heart full of joy
I dive into the darkness.
Cobwebs turn into infinite starlight,
the window opens, the garden rolls in.
With my welcome mat under the moon
I call out to everyone:

"Sit with me, just for a while,
I know it's cold and dark.
Just sit with me
and teach me the names of the stars"

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

I sat in my doorway, wrapped
in pines and solitude and
the noiseless sun falling on the distant highway.
Time grew seasons like corn in the night, and
I realised what the morning and evening and
the birds silently suppressed:
My days were days of idleness and flowers,
the calm theatre of the fresh grass,
the pond, the morning sun –
life everlasting under blackberry vines
and strawberry leaves.

Nival runes,
smooth, iridial halfmoons,
blossoming in the lavender blush
of snow