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.

where are you going river? the wind is riding your water into the future, beyond our confinement. your silver line a bookmark, a thread for lost craft.

can you give what is asked? are you placed to begin?

the horizons red cuts a line, undercuts the roof of my life, a widening lateral pull. it takes courage to walk off the path.

choosing your time, a slower lullaby, a pink hued filter, a sheltered corner.

gifts from me to you, from you to me, an abrasive exchange. the best glue boils down to hunger.

the grit feels the same, the air smells the same, my feet know the rim of the circle.

lone tree on scrubland, the surface scraped back over and over nothing flowering.

the scum rises, the wave leaves, the bubbles pop.

to gaze through the window and imagine mastery of the stars.

what is it that guides the grid and bends to the wind?

1532.5 miles around a neighbourhood, a family life, glimpsing the hitchhiker at every intersection.

on the shortest day the glass is half empty.

nostalgia comes as yellow light chaperone for uncertain cloud.

apparition of a city grown in under the skin. its grey sheet now turned in with memories.