Today her face is clay,
the mouth stretching,
the eyes bruised folds,
unslept.

Her voice moves
like wind over sea.

‘Aren’t you sick of me
demanding your attention
in this embarrassing fashion?

Bleeding feelings

words are pools.

Say:
pick a life and stick to it,
any life, just as long as it’s yours.

I’ve turned rejection into a canyon.
Grief is the river cutting it.

I dreamt your father made you a birthday cake and drizzled it with icing.
Candles flashed in orange sky and the sun was a hazelnut.
There was red wine and saffron cushions.

I’m up against a fence smelling the creosote.
Where is the gate
hooped with roses
and sunflowers
in the garden
beyond?’