The pots and pans of childhood stir me.
We made the heads of Styrofoam
so not to be too heavy on their frail necks.
Hearts? Simply-fashioned, from lumps of stone.
Finding them dead on returning from vacation,
she flushed her six African Cichlids.
The last three nights, I dreamt I was a sail
Lifted, swept and thumped from here to there.
The unconsidered diaries of family life fall open at once favourite recipes,
bittersweet imprints on the page of stained, smeared, sticky memories.
words pass overhead
spoken broken in dialogue slang where South
is said “SOUF”
We sing the songs filled with sadness,
Songs with lyrics written in silence
any blotched greenery has
the potential to burst
forth into flower.
Where cars lie dying
in Ligurian scrapyards
the Via Aurelia
travels slowly past
morning with no people, no cars
only today there are no people,
no cars. Today it’s weird, isn’t it?
braid me yes plait me
no plate me
don’t make me
Red shift Dark-moon cry of you half-him of you, starring backwards axe of you, mastered as youth Teeth of you biting down, tenderizing, sharpening if only for a night The many-fold you, thorns, garden, squall of you, intoxication Thief, the noble cat of you, insistent splinter The wild-world’s red eyes beating in you Me wrenched…