the bean seed in the jam jar pressed itself up, searching out, as our gaze inflects self with each surface.

all that practice of dissolving brought to a sudden maze of light, colour now burning out the edges.

the rain has been teaching about from and formlessness, each curtain sweeping in a new encounter for my breath to weave into.

our play is in the drama between the shifting light and the lowering dark.

life prised opened from the bottom, a jagged mouth for every passing stranger, last centuries bookends, fags and beans.

luckily there is contagion, imagination populates the drabbest mire.

keep the hard step, tread in the security of geometry.

your eyes watching, hub for every step out following each child, networking the family.

in mid-stream of make-believe, left in the rain, waiting 50 yrs in the superstore car park, we could meet again.

prone, on your back, watching the underbelly of night pass.

encircle the damp sod, muster hope.

the tarmac ghost strides, a glad heart lends purpose, be surefooted in your pursuit of the exit.

what is left to burn? indecent history, wasted opportunity, the pearlescent illusion of transfiguration.

the system manual, written in a room with men and keyboards, has no appendix for the messy cries of the lost.

for some numbers are riches, a sonnet rising and falling, all life transposed into order.