A sickness comes and goes – this week
a week of denials, this month, a lack
-ing and you tell me of your past to
pass away some paragraphs while
horns splinter the streets and our walk
-ing is only a method to reflect your
hair colour and my memories clamber
to sudden peaces, I wait for a world from you
There’s something in the searching of
if an up rises, if an off is off
your face twitches at the thought
I was here in past perfects: I had been
I’d watched you anyway from this gap;
spreading, reconstitutor, lost
a schoolgirl fantasy arrested at the gates
wearing worry with pride, a message
flashes itself on my lens.
You pace, your crowd cheers
the same as they’d have done for anyone.
your words are poor, but betray your past
a poet now? equality?
let us believe that time is passing
and not just limbs flinching as
years hit walls – part of me still pities.
Even though I keep my temperature constant
I’m aware disappointment moves through me
with various arrangements of colder air, treat
-ing, an array of slights. I am not more, here.
This glasswall, those fingers,
This thinning out and glare
-ing red hair fills my
rooms and nothing moves
except my eyelashes when
I look at what you send me
A face of stone found
an engraving, a Romanian town
three flights up
above the bank – it splits
like you couldn’t imagine
bear a legend
tell us that
we don’t move
but that around us
in flesh to leave
in paisley bruises
you’ll come home
We grow inside houses.
So it may be easier
to find us – look inside
there’s a space where you can see
a battle with the urge
to simply orbit one another
swinging around a larger mass
we haven’t found a word for
yet the days drop off
and we spend one moment
seeking ways to wound
and the next lost in grasses with
blades splitting skies, and these
useless links are what birth us
and ensure we never really move
I’m remembering a time before; all I saw
was your face reflected through optic lines
sitting in your kitchen, spilling stories
mothers and sons; the colours of your
phrenology, loving their way from your voice
to deeply beneath my tongue. It stays.
How did we go from that to where; you
humming a way around my homes, a
voice in my kitchen, bleeding my sheets?
translated from original Romanian – my best efforts
It is only through beginnings
we see true natures, weighted, without meaning and
we lose ourselves in conjuring
attempts at sensations in which
all angers and passions meet madness –
bloody, asking, wanting.
These clouds transform to
leave us washed with greeenery, but
sometimes the trees lose themselves
when the night-time enters.
She seeks the light that troubles him, only
finding the joy that was frozen, unmoveable. Here
you may find where to run for
an ending, a choice.
Life is long, and love is never over by the morning:
My bed bleeds without you. I mean it, literally,
and you remember it too.
Moving east – a death,
Time loss, time gain. Wake alive.
Falling into heat.