My wilting hands are weaving/ invisible threads into the fabric/ of cherished, nostalgic patches/ gathering

i can’t stay in my/ own skin  can’t stay/ bugs crawling in my veins itch them/ away i don’t want/ to exist  i can

Vincent can you hear me/ can you lend me an ear/ beneath the starry starry night/ wheat fields/ sown & reaped

Reflections on a lake,/ the water so still, as/ though frozen in time./ Gives an illusion of a/ painting masterpiece.

when i was born i must have/ swallowed the stars in my mother's womb/ and never gave them back.

Shouldn’t I have known,/ Reaching moonwards,/ Weak in the knees,/ Heart in free-fall,/ That it would come

I’ve got this lightning/ caught/ in a bottle,/ but what I supposed to do with it?// In a bottle,/ this little bolt 

does it feel like summer where you are?/ if i had the strength to believe in something/ i would believe in this

Splendid morning/ Cracking survival/ Faces turn toward wind/ Twisted, gnarled, vital. A beige faced kit

Not always a/ question of grace,/ endurance// More often, a/ song of float/ and preen// And you, become

Mmmm – mmmm!/ Mango moon/ Growing, ripening./ Soon, soon/ it will rise sweet,/ it will rise full,/ heavy with

A quiet hoot rings through the wood/ The flutter of wings under darkness’s hood/ Small animals creep

they cut off my wings/ to count the feathers/ like they were tree rings/ I'd like to know the number/ I wonder if

Walking the banks/ Along the river/ Waiting for life to begin/ Looking for something else/ To survive the strain

Walking in the shimmering rain/ of you, leaving the past/ in Doc Marten boots,// blue, as puddles that held

It’s important to collect something,/ my grandmother says,/ as she rinses the top of the tomato can/ from her

the minute hand of a clock/ how threatening its presence/ moving in a sweeping motion/ disturbing the calm

A butterfly floats over a wild ensemble of periwinkle/ Shy red, pink and lying orange/ Painting them a sacred white

snow-crested rooftops/ are like the sugar-cookie icing/ of architecture. They/ are a root bleached

Time was measured/ Each moment in—balance/ Fate then answered/ What exists in the futures absence?// Time