Still

A dawn is born to the window sill -
white facade, it lets the colour fill,
fill the empty can - a poet's room
wakes up, surprised: there's life still
slipping like sweat on the leash of Time -
dread and bread, the 'need' to tread...
steps, poems, the water of mirth
to wash off a dreamless, drowsy earth -
she picks on a button that says 'A';
she keys in a name to the day...
dawn, and birth, and a rhyme on Time -
a window that always meant to spread,
spread its colour - the need to tread...
she bottles it up, corks the white -
her lips are white, the screen is white;
'A' is black and the day... the day?

Surprised, there's life still...
'slipping like sweat on the leash of Time'.

This

The ache, the burn -
my marvellous poem -
you take, yet yearn
for another home -
what do I call this fear?
Despair?

You heart, you court
my blues and my beams;
you part a boat,
away from my dreams -
what do I call this fire?
Desire?

The one, the sum -
the meaning of life -
you're gone, you come,
memories arrive -
what do I call this?
All this ...

The ache, the make
of a love that is -
what do I call,
call, call all this!
This ...

Boat in a Plate

He put the boat in a plate,
devoured its folds.

His cigarette, an oar, he
rowed across the smoke,
rolled towards her
papery whiteness.

He let the smoke inflate
his existence; choked
another oar between his fingers.

The boat within the circle,
away from the river of smoke,
lingered a captive of fate.

Boat in a plate.

Sparks, Scars

Our silences, like sparks -
they illuminate tenderness
we've preserved deep,
deep inside our hearts.
Like the sun dizzying the edges
of an old sculpture,
like the night replacing all colours,
like a bird's wings,
brushing deadness away from skies -
his eyes
touch me, and I,
turn a wave.

My evening, the mistress of gold,
trembles at the thought
of having been told
that scars (stars) will replace her jewels.

Fence

I eye this fence at night:

darkness billows, runs past it.

I think of wearing a word

and crossing over the fence -

quitting for an hourglass' worth of time

the world of pretense.

Blue, the banks; red, the brook -

beyond the fence I only look -

look at the barrenness that may

bloom me and itself

once I cross the fence

for a tiny hourglass' measure of time?

I seed wait into the window pane -

nothing blooms.

Darkness wags a tail,

unwelcome, yet so inside

my side of the fence.