Little Mumbles

blind eyes
like a bat
in darkness

yellow fingers
twitching
there

is solitude
is waiting
is the unknown

calling to the
silver
light

in the fridge door
where it opens

what sleep is taking
is not sure
is talking
to a million pieces

and stranded
profound
in a strange place
bereft of words

then pieces (finding)
together
some alone space
in between sheets

that crinkle.
the pillow hard
unthinking
as you turn

your head (speaking)
sideways
a mouth wide
shutting

together
forever
with mine
(un)speaking

i look down
from the eighth floor
of the library -

students packing up
books and sitting
in the sun.

i remember the day
we sat on the grass
and held each other.

and loving what you like.
in myself, the slip is past,
dissolved in water
at the touch. i stay

beside you, like the skin
to love, to keep, to loose
the atoms lost in breath,
by loving bones and voice

to echo love, to float
like edges, up and down,
sold by the surface
purchase of a kiss.

We were divided

into angles.

Your uniform

and mine.

The leaves fell 

slowly,

as the trains rattled

although

we did not catch them.

Wish me well a hundred times

and love me until I sleep.

But tender lies the knot

somewhere inside the pillow.

Growing dull with time

to change in size and shape.

These bodies are not inert

but interacting. We are

mindful of production

to the moment of completion.

One moves beside the other,

generating frameworks

to contain ourselves within.

this panic i don’t feel

creeping up slowly

to call love its name

perhaps. the reaper

calls love a promise,

jagged on thin lips.

You are my universe:
the way the stars are structured.

I catch glimpses of myself
through colours in the air
as you light up the dark
of rainy weather
and all that gathers there.

He was alone in his house when she called
saying she wanted to drop off something:
a butter container and small plate.
He put the kettle on

wondering what she really wanted.
Outside the doorbell rang and she stepped
away as he moved to open it.
Between familiarity and politeness

she moved further out of reach;
the hairs on her arms raised
as she attempted a smile.
He offered her to come inside for tea.

She declined, turning her face away, all blank
they fell. He didn’t see them falling.
Boiled hot, like tears on crockery.

The grass was wet, when she was leaving
and the car door too. As she drove away
the road stretched on forever, and he sat

in the kitchen, the tea getting cold
and bitter. She had said nothing
when he suggested they meet for coffee.

I scatter
when you’re in the room.
I have no presence

- blank oscillation
between past and future.
Your voice calls

silence into question…
of inaction, delayed
by the inevitable.

I see you 
because it is polite. 
I want  
some semblance 
of friendship

but I don’t 
see you. 
I’m looking
for some sign
we can fall into

- an easy friendship.
The impossibility
when I am still upset.
We couldn’t 
love each other

forever; wanting 
to recover that
and knowing 
(fearing?)
that we can’t.

           This orchestra

               playing too loud

             to reach across,

        strangle the table,

    rest my head

at your roots.

         Bound together

                    in a spaceship

                            going anywhere

                          with you.