there are still good things

one day i will

pluck you from my mind

like a tic from my skin

and pick

you

apart

under a microscope.

one day

i will watch back

the footage.

maybe i will laugh at the

unknown, unloved girl

or cry for her

or whisper through

the keyhole of the years

“there are still good things, and

good things are to come for her”

 

 

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salt

i bought salt

so i would taste of the sea.

every time i lick my lips

i will remember the ripple of your kiss.

 

salt

in the food i make for you

in the tears i cry for you

from the tumbling sea to my hair

in the kisses i give you.

 

i bought

honey and salt, to kiss you with.

from the heather and the tide, the moors and the waves

from my lips to yours.

 

 

A mind of soft things

Give me again

a gentle brown eye

and a mind of soft things

 

solemnity,

a grave purity

 

Joy sloshed around in his boots

(he left it twinkling on the garden path like a slug- trail in April)

It glistened in his whistle

on his books

his pen

glasses.

 

Joy was also in the cotton sun

spilt by Morning

when she tip- toed in

to peer

over his shoulder and watch his fingers.

 

Joy did not often send him giddy

but sometimes it would leap inside him

like a trout and he would do the tea-towel jig

and dance with me on his feet

 

Give me again