street lights, linings,
objects that carry us,

yet we move nowhere
repeating seasons

how have we nothing
but mornings and evenings...

if you walk at night
into a field
thick, overgrown
you would feel it

for too often the sun sets
and the postman misses the sunrise

I fall to pieces
into pieces

in confinement we escape
in appearance we are invisible

i hope to find you someday in the woods\i'll be lost and you'll be wandering

Do you
miss me when
you hear my name?

There is something gentle
in the way you move your hands
like waves rolling in on the shore
when you speak
like tides that retreat
currents that turn and meet
and I meet you there
in the waves, in the water

because no wonder we break
on a sunny day
over nothing at all
except small fragments
of worn out places


We watch
white mist climb
over the dunes
along the grass
into front yards
through windows

the thick air, suffocating
even the seagulls

but time is never fast enough
to take us back
or forward

we roll over
and over again
onto shores
washing up bones
and worn out coins




the sky is brighter in the evenings
you tell me

I watch as a ship leaves the harbour

I feel sorry for everybody
- You feel a tingling climbing up your neck-
as they walk with veils through
fences laced with fires and faces
lining fields spreading into wide green fields
of nothing. Except wind
and grass and
light.

We are, after all
blades of light.
-You think you've thought of something. -
At night, running towards mirrors and portals,
turning together in the cycles of heroic mortals,
stars, suns, static so bright
this is the educated land.
This is the desert.
We have lost all our water.
The only shade is cacti.

You see you can't look around the corner.
Everywhere you go there are bullets that twist and turn.
Bullets that fill the houses of parliament.
I run and get shot.