3 Small Mercies
& I know it is dead
for a living heart
would erupt from the seat
& race to me & damn the world
as I would damn the world
if it would beat for me again
Kingfisher II
to feathers & silent songs I go – still
trapped in the prosaic silence & no wings
can lift a pen so heavy with ink enough
to sculpt you from the page & no voice breaks
through a beak bound so long
to sing your praises
Kingfisher
I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity
A Little Ink
all the wit in the world
incomparable to handfuls of hot
dripping meat; that’s what I wanted;
everything I read
everything I wrote
to be dripping wet
La Fleur est Belle
the flower fought growth
I don’t know if you knew that
reluctant to let some mother enter it’s body
terrified of god taking Root amongst the leaves
turned its face from the sun
swore to photosynthesise in the dark