the sentimental clichés of our small deaths

we still extract the nectar
from each wound
we've opened bare

feeding on the wings
it's taken us so long to grow
from our liquid bones

two bodies heavy with likeness
you and I
wrapped carefully in what might have been

my shadow still reaching out
from the sharp rectangle of light
in which you keep me captive

your silence still reaching out
from the tight rectangle of dark
in which i keep you bound to my silk

the dreadful hour, gently hardening
within the chrysalis
my reckless time, my destroyer

so you don't think i've got a pastel soul as well...

tales of grace and death

in that garden

i imagine you asking:
can pain subside?
is night the only answer?

i ask, in what makes, perhaps, the faintest echo of a leaf:
can our bodies still bear the fallout of grace?

before, i would have moved towards you, from within that unspoken, unfinished gesture which so oft has been the only way of revealing myself to you.





it is only time which moves in their throats, like a snake, splitting and trying in vain to shed its hours. in what should have been the raw skin of beauty, they turn from each other. when they have drunk all the red from the tulips and all the gold from the air and all the black from the poppies, in that stillness. they turn to each other, cold to the bones, ready to tear up their paleness as well.