we switched the heater off
a couple of hours ago
and I’m listening to the wind
roar around the room, outside
it’s pushing against the weatherboard,
dragging bad memories with it.
it feels like no-one could possibly
be happy out there.
not with all that awful
silence beneath the wind – it’s all I can hear:
the glow of tvs in our street
smoke from chimneys, the neighbour
slamming a door and the cat snooping round gutters,
but no sounds. it’s ridiculous, you’re
only a room and a half away
but I feel alone, cut off from everything,
as if I could scream your name and
still the wind would erase me. I’m afraid
now, that you aren’t telling me what you want
that you’re folding your dreams, very neatly
and slipping them into a card that could
fit into any box, and I’d pack them
away in a rush to get to my own, and you’d
love me too much to make a sound.



at the edge of the cemetery
where bolt cutters
opened a vein in the fence,
spread in obvious gestures
of bravery

and where else
would soil be so fertile, beneath
grass and tubes of bark
there lies an Iliad
of unfinished dreams, struggling
with the brevity of time

something of their
verve must seep into earth
must not go to waste, as countless
Achilles’ could rise and stand;
now without pain, now
without heels.



I woke up
like a horse head
rising from snow

teeth and skin
I ate leftovers
and buried the
sky in a kid’s stupid dream

so easy to do.

you’d come home
like an egg about to break
and I wouldn’t know
how to hear
another word
without sounding
prick-tired and defeated.

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