The Morning After

What shall I say to save the night?

If we go in circles,
This cut will never mend.

But round and round
Like wind and dust
We twist and turn and go,
As we must

To find ourselves again.

Flame of You

My hands yearn to touch all that is you
Moon flesh, scattered Kohl and a bruise

While you take flight like desert sand
And unfurl the rain to
Wash our feet with summer.

And soon, when the stranger, that is you,
Departs
The sky falls silent with the sun
In the corner
And I watch the birds douse their fire
Beneath a silent shade.

Grant me a day to watch
The colourful armies at your pillow
Your skin and your waves
And your eyes that speak.

And like the new season
You don’t say much, but
Your tales are true and
Your words are fresh
Plucked from the tree of memory
Washed in the river of tomorrow
Thrust between your hesitant lips
To be consumed slowly
Slowly, like your flame.

The Cynic

I sometimes feel
Most poetry is
Devoid of a poem.