Friday, January 30, 2009

Hard to swallow

This heaven’s not so sumptuous.
This sickly’s not so sweet.
It sticks, too thick inside my throat.
It burns.

Perfection passes quickly, like the
sunsets that I photograph.
I wait in darkness,
hoping for a fiery sky.

For you I’ll try to forget forever.
For you I’ll stop before I’m full.
For you I’ll quench my thirst with raindrops.
For half is better than a hole.

I’ll swallow eight little letters a day.
They stick, too thick inside my throat.
They burn.
But there they’ll stay.

Monday, January 19, 2009


His silence engulfs her,
she’s crashing on rocks.
His tide pulls her in,
sweeps her out.
drags her under.

She’s gasping for air,
he’s right there,
he’s so far,
just beyond frantic fingers,
too distant to grasp.

His eyes are an ocean.
She’s drowning in blue.
Each tear pours more
salt in her wounds.

She’s treading his depths,
always waiting for waves.
Her heart is an anchor,
it sinks.

But there is the sun again,
warming her skin.
The water has calmed,
it caresses, it carries her.
Away in the distance a vision of land,
and something is next to her,
touching her hand,
She clings to her buoy.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Slug Sundays (collaboration with Mr Nash)

They stumble through sludge,
shivering still,
from the cold up their sleeves.
Bundled in layers of comfort
that don’t quite protect.
Restricting, restraining.

The beast bounds ahead.
The two walk in silence, almost.
She breaks it with chatter, she beams.
She gazes at sky, gasps at streams.
The trees move the spaces inside her.
She stifles an utterance hiding in there.
Reaches her hands out instead.

Timid, she touches him,
kisses him, nudges him,
nestles and nuzzles,
as long as she dares.
Then falls back behind him,
or walks alongside him,
holding her heart in her throat.

The light fades above them.
The dark is a thief.
She pockets a pinecone.
She strokes every leaf.
Her camera can’t capture the feeling of forest,
the aura of air,
the vibrations beneath.

They drive back through postcards
and paintings in oil.
The sun sinks in pink,
turning every tree red.
Or at least in her head.

He turns up the music,
smiles, touches her leg.
The heater blows warmth in her face,
all around her. It rises inside her.
She stifles an utterance hiding in there.