this was the message:

it’s only a paper
moon. so

i aimed my chin
up, to

the bobbing Chin-
ese lantern

and watched
the pallid, frail turn-
ing sur-

face cur-
ling in-
ward; a burnt,

and crum-
bled

heap.

and so it was!, i learnt.

A Silver Birch

stood alone and shunned by huddles
of bigger trees and rugby boys,
wilts slow the light in glinting puddles
with hollow drips of penny coins.

this silver birch of peeling skin,
this sinking feeling sinking in;
swells wide your lacuna then; and
you - its confused denizen -

besmirched, befuddled and all too
parched
will lap the white right from the pool
and lay thee down ’til blooming
March,

from deep below the sodden earth
return the embers to your hearth.

They’re her{e} we’re
seen no Th’ear{d}.

or something e.e. might
have tried.

She's with she’s bright carat.
The brides

to be. Destined for a life
of docile

steam-pressed hushes in
nouveau style,

caught on camera
trawling down
the
aisle.

i cleave
open your breasts
with a lick

quick to the lip
upper and inner

for the
star-broken roses
of blood blister flesh

arrow fletched flecks
freckles, yes

and your sweat beads
buds of winter frost-
ed

wide sprouted
specks.

----------------------------------------

je fends
ta poitrine ouverte.
un coup de langue

vite à la lèvre
du haut en bas

pour les
roses écrasées, étoiles
de chair

sanglant, moucheté des flèches.
tes taches de rousseur

et tes gouttes de sueur
sont des boutons et des grains
givrés d’hiver,

intercalés sous ta peau,
germant partout.

a cracked blue sky
peeps sleepy from

your crescent moons
watches boats come and go

with the tides to and fro
waxes slowly into its

first queue
you,
ey!,
are
tea.
(s)ea(s)
are

swashing around the pot bone-
china frail and pale as water

on petals when the rose asked
what the morning’d brought her

ripples of you in milky dew
trembles my cup and saucer.

--------------------------------------

un ciel de bleu cassé
jette son oeil somnolent

aux lunes croissantes
(venants, allants - les barges

sur la marée, de long en large)
fleurissent lentement jusqu’au

premier coup
qu’on aurait eu
(ah
oui – le moment ephém)ère
le thé
clapote dans le pot, ma thière
en porcelaine fine et précaire

comme la goutte sur la peau de rose
qui demande ce que l’matin propose

des frissons de toi à la rosée laiteuse
tremblant ma soucoupe sous ta tasse
hereuse.