So what if there’s a dead patch.
Remember the havoc
unfettered fire makes –

My Lord, let the record show
she remembered everyone else
before this. If you must, take her
in teaspoons

I wasn’t to know
that it was a three-tusked
beast; that there was not one,
not two, but three
that grew the seed of me.

On her first day home, she took
to plucking the sky with tweezers—
latched on to clouds and waited

Which is the subject?
Limp-leaved yucca
reluctantly dying,
the foreground figure
in its stony pot?

What is holding you back from building your wormery?

You can’t say there isn’t the time. Everyone has the time
when it comes to a wormery. Born with the right tools to hand.

…4am and the birdsong begins, a wet January in a new city and I’m alone watching a man in Minnesota, murdered for protecting a woman from a fascist hit squad. . .

Unexpectedly
 
My neighbour
opens her window
for fresh salty air

Their shore leave over,
. . . the spirits of the dead are bid farewell
until that time next year, when ritual
grants them reprieve again.