fingers folded over
molding
apple-
into
scrap pit
till further needed,
will pray that dirt
nor decay
completely
claim
it-
dare i
yet
wish to
kiss
it.
writing
would say, as of late, i’m a bat
wings doming fur
and face,
cozy,
contained,
tender
as distant,
at rest.. one of many
pitted knots
on wood panel wall
in musty hut,
murmurs of
fears
of fangs and
disease
presumed in we that
light won’t
reach.
cloak city blows like
chewing smoke
breath etches fad
past into
glass
finish scraped
from eyes
devised to
hide
graffiti framing
flowers.
within body,
i seek distance
crowd the cage-
choking hazard comfort,
confines of contours
are womb, fluid imbued,
i crawl into
to imagine self unborn.
this wax-eyed hour
of weak,
i’ve no appetite
for sleep,
to speak’s a reach
through scratched up screen,
watching stances
quarrel..
tangled,
flexing hot
caffeine,
man child pounds
on bar-
to rouse
alarm,
spreading fire ’round
a schoolyard war.
self-portrait hovers
crooked,
who’s yet to
notice?
railing’s
missing teeth.
last silver hairs line
carpet stairs
at foot of firepit
naps dad’s vacant chair.
slow displacing
weight,
years
pooled at my feet,
afloat atop the
puddle-
a grey teardrop
in heat,
on the cusp of
clearing
up,
chiseled
from clay sleep..
or
grief
of farewell worth
forgiving,
heart in hand,
while never knowing.
won’t
keep fish alive,
poking
after fire’s out,
stitching sunlight
into song,
under dirt,
tomorrow’s trees..
parched and
balding of their leaves,
dragging arms
from holding signs,
footprints from your bed
to mine.
refused the
kiss..
in
favour
of touchlessness,
whether upon
skin,
or of what’s
within,
i
feel
nothing..
but
blanket sky,
no guilt, no shame,
just quiet
rain
in far-off
eyes.
recounts of fractured
travels,
child’s whisper stirs
upheaval,
peering back through
chained off
shaft,
whistle warns
of fog blown white and flat-
conductor laughs.
hands in the garden 
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