my gift to you are these few little things
that i have managed to save
like moths who fell asleep in my
care
and
who probably will never wake
preserved in a yellow clothe, folded and placed
in a box beneath my tongue
carefully so as not to disturb the dust on their wings
in case they should
fly again...

(the rustic child’s toy)

morning as blue as the eyes
of god

upon the roof

entrapped in it’s
crisp clutches

love and other
shining, stupid things
teeming below our crunched
bodies

something like euphoria
(or much to much wine)
and

silence finally

watching planes
leave their billowing
impressions on

the flesh
of the sky.

2.(the newspaper clipping)

we sank into the ground
bellow the bridge
and pretended we were
trolls
scaring the
goatlings
that trampled
by

you smelt of oranges
and wood-chips

we
grumbled and smiled
into one another’s
available
skin
to keep

laughter from
penetrating

the web of
fantasy

we were spinning

3.(the photograph)

naked beneath
the togas of wool that
our mothers gave
to us

tears trembling on their
eyelashes

(before
we walked away)

there is now fire dividing the
space between
our salty smiles

neil young-
a tiny voice
tickling the smoky
air
like little fingers
of sound

4.(the letter to yourself)

no contact
aside from

the mingling of
breath
and other
invisible

body things

like the mutual
recognition
of comfort

when was this
but
most
moments
mornings
in
cold that
froze
words
between ear
and mouth, slowing them
like insects,
caterpillars
slugging along
a frosted
branch

imbedding them
in the space
between our cherry
faces.