Jackson

All the buskers have your eyes        eyes slightly sad,        almost content. All the buskers have your beard        beard large, greying,        almost tidy. All the buskers are sweet folky teddies except the angular youth with the electric guitar. The guitar is a wooden Gibson SG. He plays the blues. He’s more like Read more

When I was nineteen I dreamed of Martha’s son. I recognise him now that I see him. I wanted to be him. Martha’s son in the long black boots the lanky walk the stylish voice the perfectly abandoned hair. I’ll bet he plays a Rickenbacker. At nineteen I wanted to be him. I could never Read more

For now, you are new almost pristine. I put you with the others your older sisters worn, used, lived-in, but still prickling with quiet promise: their honest colours have not faded. After years of giving they have so much. One day I’ll get a CD player I suppose And replace you all But I’ll keep Read more

she is plain, unstyled hair, mild acne. dressed in a boy’s shirt, jeans, white socks, brown leather lace-up shoes. he is small, unmannered, babyfaced. dressed in a boy’s shirt, jeans, white socks, sneakers. at a table for two they eat, each alone. Read more

owl        eyes, night creature, out of reach owl        predator, rush of white wings owl        cold hoot, but I am unafraid        fly with me owl        take me to the night. cat        eyes, slinking muse, lone cat        fur-sheathed powerpack cat        my gentle omen, self-contained        lead me cat        Read more

The sadness is not his tame blue eyes        and his soft grey hair        and his gentle smile. The sadness is mine. The sadness is        down off the walls, into the boxes        down from the shelves, into the cases        out of the drawers, into the bags— This sadness is a highway. Read more