I Stopped Singing There are soundsI’ve stopped singing.They ring away,over there, way over there.Chiming bellscackling fires – fumes.Library cards to pointed silencebestowed upon my throat.Good luck is the piano,cold fingers, glissando noteafter note, after note.
Dustbin Bag A man cracks her upthey hold hands forthe first timeShe tells me about the mountain grassbeneath their feetSometimes we singin the car beforebitter silence hitsA fruitful spacegone fickle from thewords I didn’t speakI, a rag old and usedto cleaning up hermess I stress herBecome ancient nowwaiting in a dustbin bagto be taken out.
Bottled How nice a bottle can become.Unchanged by its environmentwith bubbles fixed preserved.Sticking itself to the one job wemade it for – cheering the people,for you and for me. For hordes of humans, for hundreds of yearsin the sea, for humid days hiddenon a forgotten shelf holding onto the thirst of a heat struck day.