Point Zero

The thermometer deceives
my emotional temperature
will break the glass
shatter the lines,
the pain fever lasts and lingers
relentless,
no liquids can soothe
the delirium, pulsing
though arteries
shooting shock waves into
the war torn heart
relentless,
alone
sheets tossed aside
endless nights with no dawn
just aching dreams of liberation.

This Old House

washing churns
toast burns
milk curdles,
the cat waiting for tinned tuna, learns
to delay
my empty hand yearns
for a lifeline hand in mine


tea seeps
alarms set and reset
dark cornered regret

vigile

Mine is a quiet funeral
knees bent in the grass
no chorus
no jackal lament to herald
the daily path to darkness
on the dirt road
flame grilled redemption
fuelled by the howl
of the night animals.

The architecture of separation

Eight years old
Short socks, scuffed knees
My bicycle wheels spin
Sobbing in the dirt
Joints grazed, hot bath seared
Bathed in antiseptic plaster
A holding hand
dependence of comfort

The same open sore space
Hungers for that hand
That knowledge of foam bathed medicine
A towel to fold away the tears.