Rain birds chisel A heaving silvered sky I think how The polish smears reflections Until just the wake of it remains In lines as thin as chemtrails The weather will one day end, you said With that delphic nonchalance Of blue emerging from occluded winter An eggshell’s upturned mask Exaggerated so The sentiment is more easily read Across the vast arena of your thrall I wonder if the grass Remembers where you fell Sways the shape you left In evening’s bristled yellow We have a house of melodies Not regrets, holed like the lace Of blowsy curtains, a shadow’s Brief forgetting on your skin The fabric, thistle dry When it gentling scrapes Against your brow, and lips and chin A genuflection, anathema On your eyes, another Involuntary blink Through dust in sunlight’s sheaves Almost the start of weeping –except Gathered around the street (The drone almost tired) scattered flowers make A library for bees, the honeyed Aftermath of thoughts Dolloped with the burnt wing fragrance Of returning spring
