Unfragmented

The chalk man is only a marker

for the dark man that lives beneath.

Who sleeps all day under his skin of grass

the slow heat beat of the earth unheard.

At night bones of flint and fossil

raise him up into the sky,

his vortex of silver hair fragments into stars.

The holding dark, when all is quiet.

An obsidian web, flecked with frost

whose silken threads hold

me with all the strength of steel.

Enfolded in a galaxy of spinning stillness

that goes back to before I began.

That does not ask anything of me, other than to be

until time and space dissolve

into liquid thought, a river of silvery fish

swimming me down sleep’s waterfall.

And in my sleep I dream his centre

the slow heart beat of the stars,

A galaxy curling in a spiral like an ammonite,

unfragmenting the fragmented light.

Prayer

Cathedral vaulted ceiling for the amplification of God.

I could not hear him in my life now without

this breadth of stone sky to hold me up.

The ceiling unfolds with the grace of wings

feathers enclosing us safe in darkness.

The stone ribs hold shadows of lungs,

that breath angel dust,

a sandstone breath drifting down

catching gold in the light.

This cathedral is vast almost beyond comprehension,

but we’re both made from the same dust of creation.

As large as the sky it came, like us, from the earth.

Let us be the architecture of God.

Big enough to grant shelter, to bring peace.

To let all come in. Strong enough to love.

For though like these walls we can feel worn thin

by the passing of time, the weight of our lives.

If we take our sandstone soft

human love and metamorphosis

make it harder, denser, stronger

We become quartzite.

Crystal, unchanging, inert.

The unbreakable heart of God.

Pulse

To say I love her is not untrue.

But iits more that when I feel in her that vein blue pulse,

some counterpart pulses in me.

Like the animal that doesn’t know it has a voice

until it meets another, calls out to it, and so

finds itself in the same breath as it finds its mate.

Like the sound of her heart beat,

makes me suddenly aware of my own.

But more than that.

The sound of her heart sends an electric pulse

that runs from her body to mine,

so that the quiet starts beating

and I find within the emptiness

a throb separate from hers, that is my own.

She calls, and part of me I never knew existed answers,

and that answer hangs in the air,

like a ringing in the ears,

even when she is gone.

And I’m in love with the sound of my voice,

as it echoes through the room.

Black Jack

People have so many selves

they shuffle them round like cards in a deck.

She’ll say ‘pick a card, any card’

and you’ll take a chance, make a bet,

try to get her Queen of Hearts.

But its hidden too well,

you end up with the joker instead,

and by then its too late.

The black souled jack waits grinning.

He’s already dug your grave with his spade.

Soup Spoon

Summer has gone

the stunted days darken into

round silver moons

the soup spoon kisses

our mouths when we’re apart.

Stomachs full

my softness circles yours

dipping into you as we lie in bed

round as spoons

Fragmented

I

She’s lost her centre again.

A broken mirror, she fragments out,

a galaxy throwing out its arms

unravelling stars from lips and hair

Feathering the air with light,

The whole world inside its dark broken heart.

II

The smashed mirror sent out a galaxy of glass,

reflecting your face from its broken mess.

My fingers are drawn towards the fractured

shards of your eyes, your lip’s sharpened edge.

No less beautiful fragmented.

The Harvest Moon

The light switch clicks loudly in the silence,

power’s off again - the fuse,

or you forgot to feed the meter. Either way,

I know better than to call your name

and expect an answer. Though I do it anyway.

Headlamp’s throw bars of light

that climb the stairs as cars go by,

I follow them up to your room,

framed in your window the harvest moon,

huge and yellow on the horizon,

stand in for an absent sun.

You lie on the bed

pale and slim as a candle,

waxen tongue hard and still

in your mouth’s shadow.

A love like anger rises,

sharp as the strike of a match,

that wants to push the flame of my tongue

against the roof of your mouth

until you catch, melt into motion,

roll back this wordlessness.

I go fix the only thing I can,

back down the stairs into the basement.

I reach in my pocket for a pound,

slant it in the meter, a golden half moon

hung between two fingers.

We’re both hanging, holding our breath

Waiting for the light to come back on.

Waiting for the light to come back.