Slug trail skies
The day in x-ray hurts
Where I pull
At the blinds
To dismiss the shapes of frowning
Dust spills a mica race
Like promises in the air
Far above
Rorschach arcs
Where jet planes
Have cut between
We drift in parallelograms
But for this too complicated screed
That we laud in hailed contexts
What in more intimate reflections 
We dismiss
A shell of broken porcelain
Once devoid
All meaning becomes
Tenuous as inconstant praise
Your mouth the sun
Behind hard clouds
                                     slowly spoken 
Makes the shape of                             doubt                              
                                     slow forsaken

The sound of days & books

The streets are library quiet
A clarity, hid in the serried facades
Serrated trees and telegraph lines
Crossing at that infinite point
Where perspective fails
I put my reading glasses on
Finding in the shapes of words, clear and close
The world – not so far, gone indistinct 
We abide in our houses, like rough, disordered books
The leaves of other people’s dreams
In that owling susurrus
A white noise blur
In my clumsied restlessness 
A few loose pages rent 
Gusting down the road
In obdurate branches, catch
Wondering if
By a kind, entangling osmosis
What stray words are crossing in between