Thursday, 28 April 2016


Like a mound, I feel,
Piled but on the slide towards a fatal spread

And in my ears your words,
More salt upon the wound,
Ring - forming a conch of my heart
So nothing escapes
But pours towards my centre
And commits me to this weighty state
Of waiting…

Of crying
But the tears cannot shift enough salt
And my flesh burns
And my eyes
Are now blind.

I await the return of your flesh,
Perhaps even a finger, to reach across and touch
Turning everything back to me again.

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