last call home



slow gulls hang awhile

the estuary’s glide,

silk sleeking dogs

dash as if on fire


sadnesses are left

tiny wreckages like

spilt parcels over-

looked by passer’s by


people wish on by

like fragments of rain

but are gone by end

of daylight’s wasting


“where i supposed?”, into

their stiff houses made up

of dusk there to pile up

past like pale companions


daily is shouldering us over

into that morgue of spilt

clocks, that hefty horizon

of ending is sure to come


there, unseeing begins,

trespasses inches not given,

darkens and upholsters with

night’s oil-of-ease-black-skin


half-hiddens almost greying,

narratives of squabbled songs

thinning into voiceless sleeps,

aren’t these cradles really coffins?


where stood has gone, pylons

stand fading mid stride where

the sturdy grasses worship

over each limb, stiff and vanish


up on her back the moon struggles

over the hill’s jaw lined silhouette,

where fox stealth is true no owl

can locate, deepness is assured


gulls have gone and the water’s all

sequins, the mouth’s silver where

the surf unfurls, all are buried in

their rooms deeply uneventful


unaware, today will not happen

again, the dew shapes itself one

final load of tears, sunrise done

for the last time


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