pausing while chomping
at the lead of
a pencil,
thinking of writing
but the well’s
run chalk
dry,
anticipating ideas that
get wedged in the
brain wires..
shaking my head in
the hopes they’ll
be freed.
shadow play
it’s friendships like
keepsakes
stashed in boxes
in drawers
that i should
visit more.
the threat of pests
in my place
of peace
chafes the skin and
all beneath
and scratching
offers no
relief.
a feast upon the
wound
to cleanse what
won’t be
cured,
embracing
the discolour
of bruising under
teeth.
time sits
thick
like the smell
of fish
in the back of
my throat
on a broken down
vacation
boat
aimed at open
sea.
shadow
marionettes
on a screen hung
above my
bed,
the fadeout tv set
behind our live
show..
bursts with flickers and breaks
in programming,
who pulls the strings
for what moves the imagination?
feasting upon
flame
to feel desire’s
taste
upon tongues that
yearns to feel
it burn
as ashes
frost the face.
as solid as air in
my throat
like
you spoke
of such dreamscapes
since fallen by
waysides
in landslides we scrape
for earth’s
surface
to find nothing above us
but time.
lead and leave me
nowhere
so all i see’s the back
of heads,
then text me your position
and i’ll swim
the air
to find you
there.
my shadow takes
up little
space
when the air’s
sucked
out
of rooms so
vast
no whisper’s
felt
upon the neck
or back.
hands in the garden 
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