When younger,

I killed a small fly,
ripped up a flower,
gobbed down my ale,
looked a twit in the eye,
had barneys with mates,
was unloving and loved,
got down-low when pissed,
spun around, had a laugh.

Then I fell into sleep,
kipped until dusk,
opened my right eye,
flickered the left

and thirty years later,
I stretched and sat up.

When my son eats,

he allows himself
a secret moment
(like an angel might)
charmed by a taste
more intense than the smell
and stutter of bacon
or popping of eggs,
rush of the kettle,
by closing his eyes
and hunkering down
every thread of attention
into the taste, the taste,
the closing of wings
over passionate breakfast
on his razzamatazling
tongue.

A Fire

Don’t come into the house smelling of smoke
late at night when the pubs have closed
or after a barbeque flamed into heat.
No smoke! Don’t give me reason to ignite,
because smoky secrets catch you out
- caught on clothes, tucked into folds. On your thumb
I will see evidence; tan on your skin, a gently rising cloud,
a waving will of the wisp.

If you smell of smoke,
I know you want me gone,; you’ve found
some other red, transforming trick and it’s rude
to touch hot coals without alighting me.

Gogyohka

After rain
I slip in the mud,
crack my ribs.
Now, my ribs crack me
with little tears.

An alarm clock making the world go round

someday will shock
a dreamy sleep

unless it’s wound
on down and springs

go slack - so slack
we say asleep.

Sometimes
a regular

turn and turn
of passing time

unwinds, unwinds
and stops.

Like suns and planets,
moons and stars

turn and orbit
sail and spin

with little
in between

to trigger
an alarm

until they start to slow, or crash:
until they stop.