Bruxelles

They told me
Travelling is perfect
Even to the capital
of the death

of Europe.

One single purpose:

Go.


 

On Mont des Arts

Met the pads and the palms
of the man on a drum
with my wooden knuckles in the strings

Together perfecting
the weather between
them

 

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Home

I

sunlight humming
caressing blood
body corridor he
knows she knows
I know we know
doors speaking a coffee
thinking alive toilet is
necessary showery
laughing keys
culpability
have a pot of tea
therapy laundry

II

Shedding the skin of the day;
Drinking the glitter from the window pane.


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Orange

If I held your mind
in my hand
like an M&S orange

I’d press my thumb into the rind
push closer to the pulse
hear the gasp as
it broke and the baby
swirl of smoke coughs
out of the tiny eye

I’d smile at the smell
I knew I’d find

Wouldn’t it be nice
to dig my nails under the white

scoop out the weighty segments
golden and generous (like your laugh)
pull them apart (like tissue sheets)
and place them over my eyes.

Every morning
wake up

to fireflies

 


 

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