who is outside your back door? conjure your dream team, no room for the bogeyman.

the fire also knows indecision, some mornings it needs a too and fro of whispers before it believes.

the fog bell sits on my shoulders. like a surfer of contractions, i'm looking to follow waves that ripple out into other dimensions.

off the path call faces, cutting their own bright right of passage.

astray and missing, lack stiffening every limb. beyond the small window, a curled leaf, flag to the frost and the dusk, offers its assurance.

draw me on. as i contract with your pain. i bloom with your joy.

it is not alone that you move, but pulled by all that you touch.

the span is a sharp inhalation, a narrow window protecting crumbling edges.

the emergency is hidden in the black box. do not be alarmed.

the gate keepers wife outlived the gate, watching the flow with her tea and her broom.

walking to the jetty tip and on, everything is possible, walking over the rose coloured water.

soft edges erase us, cold cleans the wound, white grants a clean sheet.

a perpetual noon, becalmed by snow, a train sliding back before my birth, my fathers birth, my grandmothers birth.

you don't stand still either, everything in transit.

scant versions of myself arrive from the past to meet me on street corners. are they asking for a ransom, a room, are they pleased to see me? ,

45 degrees, arms to the sky's triangle, so still at the centre the lichen flowers.

do not count, as life encroaches, the distant ones are lost, the horizon is empty, mind your feet and hold the rail.

imagine the sun not coming, a terror that strips the soul.

hill top litany, high authority coded in bodies and places.

the crescent is hidden, the shadow is waiting, a circle is cut from the black night sky, and wells tears from upturned eyes.