Imagined Matins.

Barely rested, but with fevered beats beneath my skin, I drew her supposed aroma in and out and in again and all around this sleeping creature my world contracted and expanded; and I wondered of her dreaming.   To pass the time I figured cracks, pretended craters, dead seas, mapped frontiers across her walls and … Continue reading Imagined Matins.

her ghost.

i still find her on the sill in the dying birthday flowers - near to faded, pretty in the thirsty vase.   her stray hair in the bath, her scrawl on some scrap paper - her receipt, screwed in denim pocket and breathe her for a moment, forever, her surprising sillage   as I pass the chair she … Continue reading her ghost.

The knowledge of now.

She sat at the kitchen table with a wine glass and all the what ifs, what weres and what could’ve beens floated in the glass and the bread began to rise. She thought about the summer of 1956. But actually it was difficult to picture much more than a blur of an album of photographs. … Continue reading The knowledge of now.