Friday, 27 November 2015


It will or won’t happen
to us. The sky folds
into bleached distances.
Cloud cover anticipates all.

Keep it simple. Trees make
hieroglyphs and here,
in this vast space
we’d like to call our own,

the trying vocabulary
dissipates. That’s enough.
Love occurs. I’m not
at a loss any more.

In the interim, I’m waiting
for you to come home.

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