Don’t cry… I am just here
living next to you
in the sky

Let me go now and guard
my soul
to the graveyard

Hold it close to your heart,
be safe
and carry me to my grave

let me meditate
on your voice
my sweet moon
you sound
like a being of the sky
a silver cloud
that turns with the night
damp blue

your laughter
the news
of first rain
a freshwater stream
lifegiving

the sound of your
cotton footsteps
my early mornings

the sight of your feet
my good fortune

I'm a poet, I must
carry my notebook around
just in case you turn to
look over your shoulder
on a sunny afternoon
the sun squinting
at the blinding light in the sky

I'll be back
when I have more to say
can you blame me
for falling short of words?

goodnight

there's a small setback
my backpack is weighing me down
let me stop by an inn
and dance on my heels

this fever won't keep me for long
the innkeeper is a kind woman
she tells me she's my mother
and feeds me warm rice

I wait for the days my love feels
as natural to me as my writing does
no second thoughts
no need to edit
only momentary pauses
when I feel watchful eyes on me
when I'm performing for the invisible
men and women in my room

The ****** is in sight
and it's blinding like the sun
let's leave on foot
before nightfall

the Moon a ship-
gently rides the sea

on the horizon dreams form
allotted their time

black is the colour
as the door opens

a distant star fire
defies the sky.

All in, both feet,
I rise from the dead,
glug down some bean derived drink
revived fully and ready to rock n roll
I begin....

I wrote to you in broad bold letters.
I wrote it on a tree.

You know the one, remember
—it called to us from the middle of the garden.

Sassafras: our secret token.

Winter's stillbirth is soon upon us,
and our placement in the sun in peril.

But I have whispered it all to stones
now ****** into the sea.

Remember the tree, and pray I live long enough to dream in its hollow.

One night
I was a werewolf,
but that got out of hand.
One night
you were a peach,
but I preferred fresh
over canned.

The blood scent was strong
and on your collar,
or was it spaghetti sauce?
We meandered in
the lost city of angels,
but those women
in the maternity ward
were better shape-shifters.

Couldn't see if the moon
was full against
the polluted skyline,
(but I bet it wasn't).

Then somewhere
down the tracks,
the howler (that's you),
half a dream away
on some deserted block,
and flat on your back
like a pancake,
with the nightmares
stacking up,
and dripping
with strawberry syrup.

Or was it blood?
(I bet it wasn't).