These days walk by as a man stripped of comforts, worked to bone, then ash, blown by the wind. She hides from them, from him, under covers and ashamed at her lack of gratitude for this life she cannot bear. #sundaypoetry #text #poem #time

LOW TIDE THE TIDE GOES OUT LEAVING TINY BOXES OF COPPER WIRE EACH READS A STORY FROM YOU TO ME, IN A POEM BETWEEN TWO DOORS WHEN OPENED, THEY UNRAVEL, FILLING THE BREATHLESS SPACE BETWEEN US UNCOILING METAL RINGS, I ATTACH ONE TO YOU, TO ME THROUGH WORDS AND WIRE WE SPAN THE DISTANCE ACROSS WAVES AND ROCKS, THE GLISTENING SUN STRIKES LIGHT AND SQUINTING, FROM AFAR, I SEE YOUR EMPTY LINES LIT, SPARKS OF WIRE, COPPER LINES RADIATE VIBRATIONS OF YOU, BURNT UP, IN ME I WATCH AND

II BLACK ICE BLACK ICE TRANSPARENT THROUGH THE TREES LINE THE PATHWAY; THE ROAD TO THE LEFT IS LIT IN AMBER GLOW, IN ROWS OF FLOWERS. A SHRINE FORMS SOON TO FOLLOW: EACH PHOTOGRAPH IS OVERLAPPED AS IF THE LAST IS ALWAYS PRESENT. AS IF SIGHT IS WHAT IT MEANS TO SEE, TO REMEMBER. WHEN ALL OF HIM ARE ALWAYS PAST: THE DIRT ROAD, THE OLD COAT, THE SUNNY DAY A YOUNG BOY, STREAKED WITH MUD, LAUGHTER THROUGH THE TREES A YOUNG MAN WITH A CIGARETTE, ARM AROUND A YOUNGER BLACK-HAIRED BE

I IN HEAVEN’S CRADLE THERE IS A PHOTOGRAPH OF FOUR OF US SURROUNDING A TREE IN A PARK IN THE ALBERTA WINTER, FLAT LANDS, A PARK EMPTY OF PLAY WHITE AND WHITE AND GRAY, SEPARATED BY A ROW OF TREES, OF EARTH. WHEN BODIES CANNOT FAKE THE MOTIONS SEPARATED WHEN FACES CANNOT FACE ANOTHER WHEN WE ARE STRIPPED OF OURSELVES, LATER TO BECOME OURSELVES THE ENDING IS ONE WE CAN ALL LOOK UPON THE WAY BACK IS A PLACE WE DON’T REMEMBER. #text #inspiration #sundaypoetry #memory #writing #pr