Dead weight
the paths behind us still on our heels
we returned with wind on our faces
into the air of the household and
its company of chairs and passage.
the curtained rooms had no need for our breath
or the thoughts which clouded our surfaces
or the words which closed our doors
as we sat in the darkening space.
Dead time
at two a.m. clocks have few watching –
they take time off in the dark –
while outside nothing happens in blackness
everything in abeyance, waiting for humans
to wake for a further ride on the mount
of time until it throws them to the ground
and the course is done.
Dead end
Bells from a distant church ring
below the muck of sound holding
the air in a passing street
where houses pull the people
and bottle their lives and hopes.
A new day begins with old lives
casting lines of words and actions
into a space their matters occupies
while on earth, while with earth, then into earth.
End of day
Cooking in bathwater lies a man in white plastic
white plastic holds the thick white cleaner alongside
white plastic holds soft white shaving foam
white plastic holds thin white floss to remove evidence
white plastic holds fat white soap to wash the dross
of day into the clouding water, down the plughole
through the pipes under home, along the pipes beneath the streets
to the pools of planning in a city under seige.
Dark blood
The blood never stops working its way
through the course of your body
ready, always, at the knifes’ touch
the bullet’s hole, the scab’s break
to gush, spurt, pool and seep over
the cover of skin, the hair of possession
and fall free of its body of life
into the earth and soak its way
through the anonymous dark
Image: alexandru vicol– unsplash
