Sunday night at the centre of the universe

 

The smallest actions form reality; we can drop

problems on the porch leaving molehill toils

behind. Lately this implies the mind is a maze

by which I mean

    thoughts

are an affliction of hazy insistence

by which I mean

    it is an honour

to leave that world out there

and forge a new one in here.

 

And Eden exists because I’ve seen it

unobtrusively sat on sofa beds

by open windows autumnal

breeze that drips on familial cocoon

our combined joints and poetry

    poetry exists

because I’ve seen it, everywhere

since the twain’s met to whisper

from coffee tables in folded paper hats

by which I mean

    you

only see the souls of things in absence

by which I mean

    this hole

found its home here.

 

And perhaps I cannot save you from that world.

Demands, commitments, taking with no giving,

giving without getting, cogs teeth grinding to dust

but I can wash the dishes

and bring the wine

by which I mean

    my arms outstretched

and your threshold are the same

by which I mean

    there is love, here

there is love.

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Anticipatory grief

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It does no good

To colour in the lines

Before the record stops.

 

We feed the birds knowing

Winter will come

To collect the swallow

 

Lodged in a matchbox jester’s throat.

For buttons not reaching their holes

Stretched taut over a chest

 

Where spring evenings

Once took root.

To grow means to part

 

In the end. Shine bright

Gilded dove; sore in the sky

On your paper wings, headfirst

 

To your marigold destiny.

The spare key rusts.

The kettle stays boiled.