Leave to Reside

I’m knocking on your afternoon to ask

you to build a wreath with me… find dead 

branches & driftwood, simmer wine with cloves, 

kiss this autumn while war is on the bloody boil.

Gun-runners are whooping it up, glad-handing, 

back-patting. The rumbling of heavy progression, 

burning asphalt is always a threat – them, coming 

in whispers and roars. Hate looks like burnt toast,

an acrid velvet sneer that should be refused 

good butter. You can’t see it on screen, must feel 

the focus scorch your cheek bones, flare your nostrils. 

There was a garden, a roof, a shed, a bedroom

where children were born, caused turmoil

in the middle of long winter nights. Dreams caught

in plaster, wallpaper. Earth is dirt, land tarmacked,

layered with concrete. We have become the aliens.

Hovering Castles

It’s possible to dangle anything

everything from ears to view, discuss, choose

which will be the new you. You’ll be agog

in the possibility of the fit.

Forget the sparkle of decorating

or climbing into alternative coats

you’re already lit, don’t need the spotlight.

Advice from the woman on the brink of

what-the-bloody-hell! She can hold shiny

baubles, fondle them for a minute just

to imagine how her head would balance,

the weight of all her wants in miniature.

In a beginning there must be the bed

with roof, door, food, liquor and a window.