I hide a knife amongst a bush longing to burn,
days like these are plots from a heathen’s bible.

My second cousin twice removed arrived in May
at her old nest in the eaves of the ruined barn.

A white cloak that folds like a shopping bag,
like a Pac-a-mac with pagan overtones,
much larger when unfolded than a pocket,
a TARDIS of a cloak.

I grow shoots, acid green;
climb the walls,
surprise myself.

It’s starts in utero, painted wood carvings thick as a
finger, gift
wrapped in nostalgia.

Made a list.
A record.
The dishes she ate.
Monuments visited.
In Paris.

Tempting death with every cobblestoned step
his face was a collection of broken records

There’s more waste than we use for the things we ordinarily use waste for, such as piling it on barges and sending them out to sea, tucking it under the surface like a layer of insulation . . .

there are some lives
lived poolside
 
and others that
mostly consist of
a bent back in a field –