1 New Poem

Windows, Walls

I look over the wall;
how reflected was the noise,
light beams that slipped through
those grey spaces between
dorm-room tacked posters, dresser
drawers and lamp shade shadows.

How it seemed no longer a trapping space,
but something found safe on
Sunday mornings where time
faded from foggy view,
squeezing of clock sweat ceased
being so gold.

A trail of breath was painted
now, a stain of brilliant colour
seen only in glimpse, only in
impressed dragging, that cower,
yellow in shade, at corners
of darkened conscious, waiting to
be struck alight.

I look out the window;
the fickle New Scottish branches
encased in dripping crystal.

Your skin was bare, satin soft
against snow-moon’s hanging
glow, bright ember against dark
of abandoned ghosts, wrecking
invisible memories that vanish
against sun.

It had views to outside,
where things stormed, rages, were not soft
as bedsheets, turned cheeks,
first kisses, traced hands,
muted whispers.

A leaving mark was hardest to make
in this, torn-away curtain
from ourselves in birth-same state
drew closer, more rationed
with occurrence, more drying as
broken minutes pass.

But there were:
walls to shelter,
windows to look.