Rocking By

Intentions cradled, then
drained in some autumnal
colour-losing.
Sapped in windchill.

It peels the watercolour layers
from the washes of my soul.

In small hands I collect them:
pockets and fistfuls of dead leaves,
of proof
I could have blown away.

Neverending:
the tidy ebb
of seasonal shadowing
in the mirrors
(earth)
of my mind.

It tries to colour you,
awash in tears
and change.



Small Breaks

Here is gone
and I collect remember
in the coat-pockets of my time.

I will cherish
my disillusionment
equally as much.

Such a bitten truth
in destruction.

Such refresh,
such newness
in breaking.

Through the cracks
of here
I saw a possibility.

How can I leave it whole?

Now shatters
on the compulsion of
the future.



To You, with Awe and Constellation

I put us so tiny
in the scope of all abstraction,
hoping to tell
this little thing
with the orbits of greatness.

To weigh its consequence
against the spheres
of a half-full understanding.

I know what I mean.
I know what I say.

How incomplete,
your heartless attention to what
I'm building.

In the dark alone,
on a squeaky bed,
I peel the orbs of creation

from the spaces in my soul.