Dear All,

I have hurt and been hurt like never before. This space is entering its second closure for the foreseeable future. So it goes.



You spoke to me of
Your grandfather's plane crash in Korea
As I traced the caps of your knobby knees.
I'm in search of a home.


Rushing Forward, Keep Calm

youth and attention to heart lines
the dew on my cheeks when I wake up
such things I am

No Succession

The emperor's casket passed into the grounds,
Black pillars weeping history,
And their city as it burned.
His final instruction as it turned out,
For despite having children, still feeling so ill-placed.

The Plains All White

They told me of winter,
Problems in your hands,
But my eardrums thrummed with forsaking,
Swallowed up in clothes,
I fled the acreage unevenly,
And left the problems with my hands to themselves,

I am young again.
The snow is up to my knees.
Snow fox, come along.



Mother, Father!
My face really did get stuck this way,
Just like you said!
But I just had to make that little girl smile.

It's All in Your Approach to the Shot

We would've made contact sooner,
Had we not been so dense,
As is the common critique of us I know,
A smirk and shrug saves it ever being written down,

But I'm just glad we did,
Changed our wanting, upturned hands into,
Inviting handshakes - As if to say:
"Hi, how're you? Can I get to know you?


Every beautiful thing I have seen,
Or felt or made or been a part of,
Will come spilling from my eyes and nose,
Like an upset lemonade pitcher,
When I'm quitted and my components judged,
Fit for some other use.


My eyes stare
The motion sizzles, quivers
Like shadows on white sheets
At some point most of it's behind us
And the changing colours become our Heaven
I have loved you with what I have.



Sleep well,
As the old hands of our fathers and mothers,
Become our own,
And experience helps us talk each other to sleep.
Even if you bequeathed me
Ten thousand years to plant in good soil
I would tear it all to the wind in a cacophony of moments