The Quiet Fizz Of Slow Joys
Grief is not downing another glass
of prosecco while the moonlight
excavates the quarry of a night sky.
Perhaps it's the cold hugging
your hand while you struggle
with the weight of something
strong enough to crush a bottle
caught in the temporary boundary
between his hand on yours,
and the rain muting your cries
as you remember how your shadows
shoaled together, fizzing in joy.
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The language of an asylum is a misunderstood fracture
The past is a rabbit
caught, head first, in a razor
wire fence. The future
is a bird of prey gleefully
feasting on this opportune
moment, while the present
is a harvest mouse
watching from the hushed
stage of wild grass,
knowing the act is over
and nothing can rewrite it.
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Whatever You Thought
Tea cooling on the windowsill
forms your memory – the steam
forming a mute outline
of your body, complete with kinks
and imperfections unnoticeable
to the immediate eye. It sinks
to your favourite spot on the sofa,
perfectly aligned to capture the sun
like a cat conspiring after territory.
Little has changed. The plants
notice your absence, fanning out
their leaves to freely be themselves.
The curtains ruffle in unseen dances.
Whatever you brought shuffled away
to the corners, lost itself among the dust
making plans for next year, got tangled
in cobwebs, and dreamt of an empire
no-one cared about.
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