nights

confessions

confessions of dust

faltering in the shadows

of sun and moon 

you count the screams

you gathered near

the carcasses of

abandoned intentions

and naked you search

the clouds for imaginary

nights

while the orchestra plays

a requiem for exhausted

tin cans

the sun frowns

the moon sighs

night then morning

silvering dark the 

night on the wall

a clock offers only

a wedge of fleeting

comfort clinging

to the silvering

dark a raindrop

fresh and pregnant

your faithless

lipstick  you tell me

(on the phone)

has vanished what

colour the faithless

lipstick i ask

you laugh

i hang up

the silvering dark

of the elastic

night bribes you

with a front row seat

at the coronation

of a frog

in the morning

you watch a

raindrop give birth

the unveiling

it is late on bare feet

the unveiling is watched

from behind the burden

of unforgiveness where

sin is lit with a match

not a zippo lighter

a barefoot unzippolit

night sighs on your

privacy and you know

your face belongs

not to you and your

voice belongs not 

to you nor the strings

that make you move

        take not the elevator

        take the stairs instead

      

        

(your shoes

where are your shoes?)

tuesday

a postcard arrived today

a tuesday

the postcard is addressed

to you

the handwriting on the

postcard looks familiar

it says you changed

your mind  

the image on the 

postcard that

arrived today

a tuesday

is of a lost

simplicity

the night is humid

and sultry

rhythms

a rhythm

again a rhythm

discovered in vacancies

surrendered

bedtime stories offer

no respite from  the dangers

of unfamiliarity

in another rhythm it is

a misplaced self you are

searching for

scale models of lust and 

sweat you built in years

forgotten now

is what you find

(instead)

your scars

self inflicted?

you read bedtime stories....

i get it

and you created

rhythms

rhythms to help you

find a misplaced self

rhythms are nothing more than

the never ending ebb and flow

of then and now