Green Wound

These were the thoughts,
that we used to turn our heads
away from dreams,
we all did.

But the moss upon the car,
I was entranced by its double meanings
and blue feelings,
my thoughts remained unhinged.

And I saw the cornerstone
where the rose roads converge
in the sleep of the dead,
underneath the star.

The waterfront pubs where we used to meet
are now a real dream estate
of stone and tyres
so I keep that wound green.

The Bower

I chose the path
that cost me several dollars
and all my years
consist of several horrors.
The path is strewn
with fallen leaves,
fallen from eaves.

So I made a bed
and slept for several hours
and when I woke
in the shady bower
I saw the word
writ into a tree,
written for me.

“If time is a road
to a pleasing retreat,
or so we’re led to believe
by that musical brocade
and we try to ignore
the ghost at the door
and when we think we’re good
it’s all just vainglory.”

I’m just a wasteful man
in a caravan
and I wonder if I’ll ever learn.

The Lights

While walking home from work
I passed a field of bones
and I thought a room belonged to me
’though it’s in a city that bleeds me.

The lights are coming on now.

I see from time to time
this place which has no time
with all its hidden purposes
and all the parks with no entrances.

The lights are coming on now,
(an ampersand).

Melissa

We used to call round your house
on Henrietta Drive,
the shelves heaving with books,
this must have been 1992,
and your mother would make us food
while we watched TV in your room
and you took me up to your roof
past the dogs asleep on their chains.

Some lives I know are memories of being free.