` loqui
Close your eyes and I will tell you a story

"Don’t tell me the moon is shining; 

show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

~Anton Chekhov

We don’t have to kiss. 
I’ll type the fingers of a petal-flesh pianist 
along a swan’s neck
and watch it give away 
its question. 

We don’t have to be in the same room. 
I’ll exhume a thousand histories 
of fresh gardens blooming  
from the battlegrounds 
of wars against the world’s walls 
and there we’ll paint a private haven. 

We don’t have to touch. 
I’ll write time as fluidly as calligraphy 
into the story of how I get from there 
to here, and you will feel every moment. 

We don’t have to see  
to enter each other’s bodies. 
Close your eyes and listen closely: 
This is the sound of summers humming 
through the window, the cotton clouds 
of bedsheets under our skin, 
the dewy air of spring trickling down 
our foreheads and between our limbs, 
the sex of angel’s breath we inhale, 
the red lips of every fire, the water
of every tear gone by, 
the end of the world and the beginning 
of the world as we know it. 
Volcanic - as shaken - remade 
and settled as an island anew. 


we are metal 
in the moonlight, dirt
on a rock 
through the same space, crumbs 
in the same slice 

of bread going in 
to the same mouth at the end. 

what’s an ocean 
but clutter? 

time a letter in an alphabet 
that sweeps away the space 
between the stars.

Make it right. 
Settle the flurry. 
Pull out the fire from your belly 
and meet the monsters daily. 

For when it is time 
to go, to say your goodbye,  
you might not get more 
than the look in your eye.


Is it you, your voice I can hear? 
I keep an ear out, 
one hand, great fist 
down the throat 
and the other 
up, waving to the sky. 

I sit and watch the endless herds 
shuffle past, keeping schtum, 
teaching myself 
to pick out your face 
through the dust. 

The hardest part 
these days 
is not finding you, 
it’s not letting you stay. 


2 weeks without a decent meal,
months without a smile.
I am hollow.

Go slowly whilst rising.
Be my blanket for the bends.
I am filling.

Beginning again.
The flavour of water.
I’ve grown whiskers for trap doors
and your purring is thunder.
How much we can taste after a fast.


I’m laughing
cuz the match light
in your eyes
looks like the times
we didn’t have to try.


bricks without mortar.

eggs without father.

map of weekend splayed
across the dirtiest of sheets.

the law of the land upon the sea.

blueprints, fingerprints to follow
to the letter, to the scene
in a dream.

the groundwork for a tower,
the stone inch upward
from the page, from the eye,
a bubble.
too often we watch it topple,
pointing fingers - pop -
rather than let it settle.

wild flowers 
in a vase
without water. 

nothing else matters 
once you’ve been found. 

a secret mouthful of friendship

under the table. 
under the bed. 

we are monsters of our own 

mouth to mouth: the stuff of life,  
from hand to hand 
between legs, 


Picking berries through winter, 
snapshots of adventure, 
it’s flash fiction. 

It tastes the same, 
it looks the same 
as the picture 
in your mind. 

Not until it’s too late 
do we know the difference, 
the nutrients 
of a real, full love.