My day,

My day is not young
my day is not old
my day is not buried beneath the soul.
One day you will find it
and it will speak out to you
"good morning, good noon, good night,"
then explode with flight
ecstatic you'll affix your sight,
whilst dusk brings tidings
and dear day will disapparate,
perhaps to a far corner of some parallel.

Messy fragments scattered
along your weeping smile,
lickable memories for a fond friend
upon distant isles
of the same galactic supermarket.
My day, some day.

Able

When you are able
to own up to the pen
that bled that tear,
you wont be able to write
a single truth
to it.

Memorial for the black coat

And in any hour
she would tare aware my gaze
the scoured flacks
of cheekbone,
hungry for face.

Memorial for the black coat;

never really gone though,
are you?

As I walk amongst you all

I have a confession.

It's about time and what it meant,
it's about memories and how they are spent,
it's the truth and the truth is
that I am clueless.

And for all these things
tumbling away,
I didn't secure my own mask first...

I don't vaguely remember if either or any of us
were saved,

or if I am here
or if I am there,

I opened the book
and fell defeat
a little oozing animal,
gasping
breathing
living

So sweetly delicate
cast upon me-
this disarray.