the soft skedaddle of birds
across a sky as daft as a painted bruise

the sun's contusion
glimpsed between windows,
between clouds like pale drapes

lassitude lassitude
and the great weight of the sky's basin

blood comes to the surface
and blooms
in the thin spring
as if it were wet petal

a tally of fingers
counting the tattoo of the stars
while I'm flat out
on the surface of myself

ribbons of breeze
tickertape like rain
the squander of moments

come under the umbrella

I'd like to play several tunes
inside you
these empty empty hours
trombone and cello

as blue as the spillikins of light
that fall to our feet

our bare feet
trespassing across the open fields
beneath the unblinking
height of the same same sky

the sun is a plum at dusk

From Love Poems