the shadows are not too sure of themselves,
like calligraphy without language,
like an artist finger painting in black –
trees grew up together,
their shadows grew into each other,
casting cool darkness over tar.
the wind plays with the shadows,
sifting through leaves with its poetic fingers
so that dark and light dance on the ground,
flicker, slide, quiver, sway, weave,
they play a butterfly’s game of beauty,
mirroring the sun’s own choreography with the clouds
why should i say anything more, less, or differently than i have to say it?
we are fluid,
always moving, always doing,
but we are also repeated cycles
(we find constancy in the familiar rhythm of our movements)
we are specks on a wheel
that we didn’t know was turning
until we swing back to the same position that we were in
stillness is at the spoke.
peace is at the centre.
i’m afraid i don’t know how to get there
fear holds me.
snaking his hand into my chest,
against my lungs.
his other hand has dissolved around my gut,
it twists and stretches in strange, unpredictable ways.
his whisper tickles my ear,
sounding exactly like my own,
murmuring worst case scenarios accompanied by
of my heart, my stupid heart, that is rebelling against this heat;
running, racing, bolting within its restrictions
needing to escape this suffocation;
determined to outrun its fate.
because my heart,
my stupid heart, doesn’t know
that you cannot escape
what already resides
you and i;
we are both
storytellers, writers, poets.
but when my
naked body curls
against yours: with
touching foreheads and
closed eyes, when
i tell you
i love you,
you tell me
you are family
i cannot help
but think that
words are only
poetry if the
right people say
if the right people
the sun reclaims its debts;
as honey beams sweep over marble tiles and climb over painted walls
to steal the last glimmer of glass;
the trustworthiness of colours.
it gathers the ends of its gown,
plunging into its own magnificent cloth
the clouds yield
before their master,
patterned in the sky to catch the last echo of sunlight
it is only to the sun
that gold really belongs
life is about the deep breath after a long fulfilling laugh