Twill and Tea

Response to Mimsy's Prompt.  

For C, the Lady Leaf of my tea.

Golden bone of monkey, 
herring and needle 
tooth of hounds and 
skin of shark 
flowering of gunpowder, 
bergamot and mint,
melon seed cloud of lotus and silk 
foulard, surah, 
cavalry and drill.


Leaves unfold
in coalescing ceremonies
of memory and becoming
in cooling cups held warm
in hands with fingers 
twill to loom

The Agony of the 
Leaves.  Us, alone together,
grown together, 
lapped on the sea of time and
sung to the time of tea
in giving up parts 
of our plural selves 
to the water,

this plural tea,
‘twill coalesce.

Really not happy with this in many ways (not least because can like...hear me...), 'tis anyway...


I chew with my brains.
I eat with my eyes and ears.
I shit with my mouth.

Values vary invariably
between us in the
unobserved interval,
an interval forever unobservable.
Our projects extend, expand
and arrive as conjectural junctions
in unknown areas,
constructing images out of us and
construing the air out of our lungs.

I expectorate through 
and despite my skin,
my closest next of kin
and home for all my bones.

Into / Hope

Alice's hope rode into town and spun and turned and wound my mind around...

hope for the future
or regret of the past
both hold our helpless
awaiting first and last

dreams pulling from back
and front to any when 
but the one that we rack
our selves on to defend

to any death that will
do the dance do the jig    
that we love to watch
but can not stand to rig

our selves into as if
we’d rather dig the whole
inside and pitch what
comes out of any bowl    

we do not turn ourselves
at all the gifts given
spinning into before
and after these riven

wishes ride on jealous
horses and draw and quarter
these moments that we
give away steal or barter

but cannot seem ourselves 

we huddle

our hope springs 
eternally birthing beasts 
from the ground dreams 
of all our ancestors 

Three Facets


It is strange to place
a smell that has been so long 
lost to memory,

to realize that
you did not feel its missing
until you found it

waiting for you, a 
breath of absence in the room
that clings and orbits

around you and the 
dying dog.  It is not yours.
It is not a gift.

It is left for us by the
living as they leave. 


It is strange to come 
across a thing waiting just 
here for just you to 

find its missing at 
this right moment, next to the 
kiss that you placed on 

your mother’s brow when 
you asked her if she wanted
to go home to die.

These are not things that
I can understand.  They are
the same life.  Their deaths

smell much the same no matter
who does the dying.


It is a strange place
to find yourself, on this
bare floor between these

two like epigraph
and epilogue, both ends and 
both beginnings,

and arbitrary bookends,
heavy with hollow.  

Who could have guessed that 
you would find your self in this 
simple act, waiting 

for you to tell it apart 
from where you found it?

A trio of haiku sonnets