Thursday, 7 October 2010


. they stitched disintegrations to make a cloak
her toes swam among music
night was short & of violence
winter was a closed door thrown wide open
they took them to somewhere where the searchlights were
they burned wrens in front of their frightened jaws
he took the cloak from its hanger & conjured her smell
it was never night
by the river we took a stroll
the trees were grey & cold
the hot sun lay on my lips & wept
they butchered them to the rhythm of markets
the dance steps were easy to practise
we practised them though troubled by engravings
it was a standoff between the police & ghosts
the river went away it was an orchestra it was an axe in
the wrens burned to ash then to flowers
the flowers were illegal the night went away
“it was an orchestra it was a walk in the country”
the sea hung precariously above the earth

like that you look like a soldier
the beautiful crunchy maps
living among the ice of the room
the flowers hung precariously above the sea
the waves were hard as fists
with calm & quiet gestures he unscrewed his eyes to rest
them on burnt cotton wool
now he could hear again
her warm coat will be good for her to own
they said their names longingly
the little wren blocked out the moon
i could speak italian in your dream
i must buy some warm clothes
the orchestra was divided into several sections
now all was perfectly unvisible
they wiped themselves clean with flowers
everything was superimposed
nothing was superimposed
i could play your dream in italian
they drank milk from the fridge on their knees.

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