Chopin saw Bb minor as charcoal
in ICU its your name and the date
number of truths equals number of cuts
ravens prefer to roost on dead branches
ill’s a good word—deals with it succinctly
congregation of tuarts, all standing
it’s a dangerous light near the surface
not recuperating, always the next
cirrus smeared, hinting, smudging the language
venetians slivering the mopoke’s call
the undead aren’t writing books about it
raking the coals, making night in the grate
all purpled, fly-wired, Sunday afternooned
while in my shirt box mind, pinning moth words
hieroglyphics of now?
there’s a wide sky and untrammelled footpath out here
while you’re in there on small stools crocheting stories.
trim the bottoms off flowers, change the water, re-
arrange the stems to conjure randomness/order.
pull yourself back, smudge under and shimmy into
the scribbles of cirrus, hieroglyphics of now?
stay close to the thrum of us, bang it on your knee,