what can i give you, a grey sheet scrunched and stained, letters that do not carry directions.

in your horizontal is Van Gogh's narrow bed, the shade of Munch's sick child, the tomb effigy of the fallen knight, memory and the unsaid gather.

not what is, but what can be taken.

the mason’s angel casts blessing. unshadowed, clouds pass without need.

silver black trunks tilt over the battleground. what is brought to the field, that the water lances darkness back?

first child, then parent, then child again first distance was release, now each measure is severance.

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.