
Nose to laptop,
buried in messages—
was that funny?
why is there silence?
did I offend?—
a voice from upstairs, muffled,
“Did you call the kids?”
“No, let them call us!”,
smells like the meat needs
turning over, table still unlaid,
“Can we eat soon? There’s
something I really want to
watch” and shit I haven’t
washed the salad, this
poem is still unfinished and I
forgot to look up.

What if we were wrong and those
scrawls on the sky really were
God posting his thoughts,
suggestions, observations, equations,
knowing the wind would
rub them out before we could
notice and perhaps
feel stupid?


The crack in the door lets
in more than light
a house unstoppered
the flask of memory spilling
out into the night
Hands, so often apart, count
countless seconds to those
golden hours, midday, midnight,
when, briefly passing,
hand strokes hand.
In the days of big trees
you might be as briefly beautiful,
as bluebells in their shade, but in
bare times you would be
feted as you strained to
bud a buttercup.