On the intervention of angelic beings for good or evil in the mundane world

You are semi-aquatic
The silent metronome 
Cathected, a pristine serum
In jungle loops
As if you had begun to shed your skin
The translucent arteries displayed 
In their machinic glory
Imagining the melodic sound
Slowly drowning
The way Icarus did
The doctor finding
Lodged in your side
With cupped fingers, genuflected
Between crookèd hip and folded rib
Burned from the stitch of breathless running
A kind of knot
Quietly, in amelioration green
Saying, thank the angels and abominations
If the child had not been sick
Treasured, coddled, machined, subjected
Devoured, destroyed, made made
Drowned in the sea inside the sea
He would have died

Waking up, falling down

the tin-can morning
safe, but for a raw edge
behind the death-knell curtains
I put on my floor trousers
laying like a dog
dust the colour of the moon 
sieves down
I step raggedly through
motes follow, worshipping 

There’s a myth 
that strength and vulnerability 
aren’t mutually exclusive 

From here you can almost see
the willow by the bridge

But (too bright) today
I will just hallow the memory

The shadow of the bed’s
barred iron brow
stretches narrowly and wide 
to keep me

As if such creatures had enclosing wings

Crumpling by the escarpment
to the floor
I do not dispute


Almost half awake
blanket warm
That strange lopsided walk
Of sterile corridors 
A smile in the side
Threads of rotten teeth
Holding desperately to silence
Except the ventriloquist muttering
That untowardly thinks; you left a bird inside
Obtuse and andiron blunt
Chest too cramped to so childishly fly
Arms that half stretch out
The sinews almost disconnecting
Wishbone flexed
To that hyoid shout
That leaves me palely clinging 
Against the ribs a cowl
A rose in my mouth
The glass has two faces
One folding in
The other folding out
Falling sideways
Through the airy space
That I halting breathed
The miasmic shape
That you left behind