late night

I know there's no way to stand out –

and it's very easy
to make someone's throat clench
with piano
and a montage or a bit of slow
motion, soundtrack
really makes
up for substance

but what have I got – just lines
on white
envy
and really, why bother when
everything is so obviously impermanent

I guess the great lie of our time is capture –
it's comforting to believe
everything can be caught, recorded
and remembered
so we don't have to appreciate
anything in the moment.

endure

like Sophocles inventing
pain
her perfection
is made
knot
by knot

as she rakes the spyglass across the horizon
in one long smudge

as she leads him home
weary of visions
and
of fighting him, placating
his attacks
eating his
blues.

pedestrian

in the possible hush
of 6am the
road is dusted
in pastel-smoke

feet bully the pavement
and cars slip down the highway.

on rubbish bins
crows flick glances
like struck matches

and the wind
squeezes by, rustling
plum blossoms
with clumsy arms.

yokan

full moon
splattered on the field

stumps' moot.

april

could we meet
somewhere else
in april
maybe
on stone
with rain beading in your hair

I'd listen for once and you'd be strong
I'd be able to sit still
and you'd be happy
for the first time since april

everything would work
and we'd be able to talk, without
feeling crushed by the weight of stars
their cold light, dry as wind

and the streets, empty at dawn
but full, of yellow leaves
and little hurricanes.