Friday

there is life
in window sills
secret plateaus
dormitories of thought
time
cloistered in the settling dust

Saturday

handcuffed
for crossing borders
lines on paper
mean too much

Friday

foolish of me to believe
puddles were rivers
stones were dreams

Thursday

sunrise through a latticed fence
I let go
of the big picture

Wednesday

pull me to the delta
let's greet the standing water
with our skin

Sunday

should I stand here
still
as your absence bends the dusk
into darker 
and darker 
hues

Saturday

a rush 
of blood
a rush 
of vowels
a rush of 
tongue tied
tenderness

Friday

day dwells deeper in the echo of hours
solstice stretching light

Thursday

birds 
sewing songs 
into the quavering sky 
a baroque burst of sound 
detailed and disparate

Wednesday

before four
a soundscape of birdsong
gives depth
to the dark
silhouette of trees

Tuesday

etched in the perspex
signs of life
reminding me a window
is still a wall

Monday

Sunday


hemming the fabric 
of her young tongue
to an 
old 
ghost's throat
words starburst 
backwards

Saturday

we'll meet
in the fingertips of trees
in the axil of a leaf
in a different season
settling