I Cant Sleep I Lost My Page

a little bairn yourself

(cut me, i think that i bleed terra cotta silt 

drain me i think my lymph 

opaque indigo

--i spit lapis bile--)

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there is so much love that you do not know!

so much, love!

truly i cut this planet in half like an apple 

for you

i think myself slowly turning to bronze 

for you,

that i might be useful

that i might be of value 

that you might wish that i should be 

buried in your barrow 

although i know 

you're just a bairn yourself

a little bairn yourself

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i know that it is scary! 

i am afraid. 

and you 

little bairn i know 

your fear to be more pungent

you know exactly what it is 

that you fear. 

you know its 

unknowable 

face.

have smelled 

its frost.

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you would grit to hear me say it 

but you are wise with sorrow. 

and i am stupid 

with love.

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it makes me smile 

at chalk skulls.

stare long 

at bare nothing, 

write 

little poems. 

"she smiles as one who loves to smile" --sandy denny

blackwaterside

daffodil st.

i suppose i do not know who cares and do not care who knows.

i am hiding beneath the table in a Vermeer.

last night willem said, that i am the second weirdest person he has ever met.

i don't know where to direct this question which i have for 'my maker':


how can i function with a heart that is this unholy swollen?

how can i breathe when I have lain my lungs under His pillow?

how can i sleep when this voice has been wakened?

how can i walk when my mother's feet are failing her?

how to be wise when i unlearn everything i have known?

how to be cruel when to the crux i am soft as a moan?


weak with no suggestion of sea legs, porous as pumice or sponge

daffodil street and its hovering heat on that day that was so indecisive

until it broke into yellow and a shuffle two chess pieces in the grass

begging the question

of what gave me the notion

that i have a right to ask