Sally Kirk Road


An ember glows in the dusk.
A blackbird calls from the meadow’s edge.
A dry whiff of leaves. 

Is it those warm arms you still long for,
that gaze that held you close & listening,
those lips trembling like a wound?

Or is it merely the forgotten dreams 
in which that gaze could still have lived, 
in which the dreamers wake

still trembling, but safe now 
in the coded mysteries of breath,
a candle’s steady dripping on the bare table,

while outside, constellations
crash against the shore?




Certain thoughts cannot be turned back from.

Certain syllables.

Certain marks on a stone.

To lift one’s hand
brings a shadow crashing to the earth.

To breath at all
spins universes into night.

At a certain depth, the city is seen to float.

Later, by the window,
dawn staring in like a skull.




Afternoon clicks like a filter
over the lens of light.  

The shadow of an unseen tree
polishes the courtyard wall. 

A row of locked bikes glitters.
Cobblestones & moss.

I will not cast aspersions.
Nor will I deny what I have seen.

When evening comes &
everything changes

I will be waiting here
with my hat held out over the 

silence, singing, sung.