Hemlock

I make you a cup of
sweet tea.
Milky hemlocks wave in
my garden. 

A late autumnal afternoon settles on
my skin. 
Like a soft shroud on the carcass of a
child unborn. 
Mossy green fishes swim in
your eyes
from a summer whose shadows have
long withered. 

Each fish in your eye is 
a monster. 
They devour your stories
my memories
our regrets. 

I make another cup of 
sweet tea. 
We keep sitting in the late
autumnal afternoon. 

In you,
each fish drowns. 
In me, 
a new hemlock grove raises its head. 

End-of-the-Year Lullaby

My Dear,

Death is a sheep
slow grazing
in a field of stars.

Our shadows still frolic
in the afternoons
we forgot to stub.

Our mid-nights still burn
ages after
the last embers have died.

Did you not know
that stories that leave
never come back?

Except, o' my love!
when they want
to haunt you down
and turn around.

A Handful of Sea

Send me a handful of sea?

Your stale love clots

like wet sand.

Now clinging to my skin

now, not there.

At night, the sands turn silver

like a sky upturned

all its dead stars.

And, then I want

to wring all the black

out of your shadows

leaving only a

smear of ink behind.

Ink from the depths of sea

in a handful

of which

a lil mermaid will swim,

away from the wet sands

of your love, decayed. 

Girl in the Forest

Girl in the forest
is that you?
What's this stain that
keeps spreadin' through?
There are creepers in
your hair and
fishes in your
eyes, are you
looking for something too?
Wait, aren't you the one
who ate books?
All of the
books that there were?
Is it true?
Is that the stain
that keeps spreadin' through?

Those creepers in your 
hair sleep all day. 
The fishes in your
eyes look frail.

Girl in the forest!
What will you do?
Now that your words
have left you?

Stranger In The City

This city will never
have your heart.
But she will know
your cold fingers
gripping window bars
that old song
in your head
late night foibles
piling cigarette butts.
No, I don't smoke.
Neither does She.
I keep sweeping,
sweeping and dusting
piling cigarette butts
that you leave
here, there, everywhere!
My city will never
have your heart.
Just the diary
you threw out
of your rented
flat, will age
upon her. Yellowing
crumbling, falling
all over her.
No, you do not
have to give her
your heart.

Cinderella?

All my chores
are fairy lights.
I wash and
hang old clothes
upon the wire
where birds sing.
The clouds gather
slow and low.
Rain streams down
all over them.
Their colours drain
softly away, dripping
like a slow waltz.
Down the gutter,
suds of soap
tufts of dream.
The colour of
Your sound spills
on my skin.
Almost like bruises,
beautiful midnight blue.
Wasn't that the colour
of Cinderella's gown too?
I did not lose
my shoe.
You did not come
looking for me.