On a day

under milk


/            there is a silent wave

              above us




The clouds disagree with the season

Our thoughts spent delaying the inevitable


I have been so far past the fence line

I have lost my way back to the front porch


The pianist cracks his fingers

(a flash of hail on a tin roof)


speeds through the week as an octave

but can never sustain the centre of things


If this was the world

before maps


/            before the lines we drew

              found their way back to themselves




I’d sing the songs that summon ghosts and

they would tell me where to rest my head