The mouths of the stars

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…

These feelings

In the softest shades of the night He spoke to me, Of chasing lions from the mountains To the level of the sea, Of curious, frozen fingers Upon aged sycamore trees, Of the feelings he has, But cannot give freely. It has long seemed a wonder to me, How words sputter forth Clouded mysteries, How…

The distance

It is a blow to realise, as a lover of words, that talk can only accomplish so much. Were I to touch the infinite crevices between the stars and leap the dream-deep spaces between waking and childless sleep, I would be no closer to clarity. I could wade the swollen river while gnats frenzy the…

Observations

Most of the time, I feel unencumbered by the clashings and conspiracies of colleagues; both feet several inches outside of the circle in which everything seems to happen. In the art of noticing, I am, at times, spectacularly inept. Though I can sit for hours, sketching and perfecting the same mouth. Here at the beach,…