There are morning crows on the splintered fences, yakking and pushing each other around. The first crunches of ice on the ground, these cheap boots that let the water in. I want this all to be over. I want it only to begin. I long to reach in to the gut and the lungs and the mess of it. Hold it still, keep it all exactly as it is. There is a Christmas tree in the bedroom now, the kind that makes slow patterns on the wall. Crackling war songs and changing colours as she sleeps. I can still hear
Here in the clamorous night my fingers upon your mouth the summer birds seek shores untouched by rain, silver and silent in their flight. And I can think of no greater joy beneath these wild oyster stars than to fall asleep in the cold grass and be licked awake by daylight.
It’s burning and it’s brittle, this strange and little thing of ours; Sometimes I see the wings of the sun, then the gaping mouths of the stars, And can I help it, if I can’t stop dreaming of you? I wish you would lay down beside me, in the weightless cradle of the night, and speak only to accent the silence that shivers between wrong and right, But the moment you arrive, you have long begun to depart; The earth hides his face while the moon bares her heart. I don’t want to hurt you. I never mean to cause
I have wanted to be with you for so long. The dream of you diluting my days into perfunctory conversations and people and chores I could do without. But these autumn weeks have been strange. Changing my focus onto more pressing things, less wishing I were far away. The boy stood up today and recited his first poem. Someone I barely know hand-delivered a card with the sweetest words scrawled in blue. The sick girl fell asleep on my arm. And the woman I love above all else squeezed me tight and said Thank God you’re here, Thank God you’re