She Shrugs Cloud Shadow

The tv spills a cold, invasive blue

I have an impression 

Of you walking on my spine

As if I were an arc and cable bridge

And you a monster movie freak

Grown so large and petulant that

None could help but fall

The sea below hard and pliable as new discoloured bruises

Tear it down, you say

Crush them all beneath your unbound feet

As if the stillness

Before and after earthquakes

Were merely punctuation

Wrath is love, you write on the sky

The moon moves farther away each year

I still abide, calling in that silent way

That I have always had

She shrugs

Cloud shadow, listens

Trouble Sunday

I will wear my morning coat

Buttons not half as big as the moon

Done up crooked and crooked done down

Till troubled as Sunday afternoon

Against my nails the tick-tack sound

That she only understands

In her chagrined gleaming

I turn skywest my crinkled brow

Beg of her a brief blessing

Feel her calming breath and hand

Cool my cumbered thoughts awhile

Smooth as the nightsea’s far lapped sands

Sleep warm inside my sleeves

Cotard

I thought I saw 
In the dulled cement
Of your sink
The reflected ire
Of death’s autumn moon
The fading red
Of haloed leaves, and last summer’s fires
As if the light
Had slowed to a dirge
But, your windows were opaque
Rippled glass, an upraised sea
The spilled chalk of erosion’s residues
Just me, and a hand-sized moth
Tenaciously still, against a drunken tide
Knowing, I am almost dead
While you disdain
Our silent worshipping 

Walking in Armstrong’s footprints

Sunday is the colour
Of black and white TV
No signal anymore
Just the radiance
Gnawing in your ears
We still wear
Last night’s epitaph
In a too bright fervour
Of distorted red and green 
A magnet to the cathode ray
As if the laughable geometry
Of neat lawns and backyard swimming pools
Were the height where with
A half-humbled prayer
You could,
(only sinking slightly through the screen) 
On that pocked and pristine surface,
So easily walk