death day



gloom becomes

inkier

blackcurrant

deeper


dusk warblers

salute the passing

of shapes, perished

outlines -


this soluble day


that inch of edges

buries all, chlorophyll

whisperers, root to

anchor quieten


silhouetted traders

unwrap cinders,

charcoal nocturne’s

its gazing


sea-slowed-muffle,

daylight shrugs off

from lichen liked

boughs


an entirety of sleep

wades thru’  the

shadow molested

grasses


inked air

deepness into

every thorough

window


stars, pinched irises

of chrome-width yet

on full glint, such far-

away sparkles hint-


someone is watching

makes the heart glow

better, knowing, cold

is achieving its collars


a sleek glove of knives

patrols sliding thru’ wind-

whipped-convulsing-fingers,

leaf shiver and muse-


about the near rust that is coming


the plough is left awkward-

elbowed for dew to confess

oxides to fasten, wet and sturdy

for morning


steeples about repeat their

vanish, a raven’s wing

crosses the land where

scarce pheasants scarper


and the mind's

rubble vacates

and

replenishes



a ghosting month



attended to by

another anniversary

attended to by

shadow


here, a copy of

tears is added to,

compiles my ocean

of deep shivering blues


i am sure i see you

roam where the pale

orchids grow and white trees

lean up against the palest hills


a river tends to and is

whispered-upon-caresses,

does the white hawk even

notice?


i am unsure of within my

own heart unsure of grief

that never exerts absence,

colour abandons grey


you are not stood or here

always near my senses,

where you stride in the

whitest of woods, do you


ever glance back to watch

the window occupied where

shade only multiplies? see me

in that wreathe of dusk


that continuous lane

arched over and ached with

rust, silent wrists shuffle

the barely warm sun


i am always thinking of

that certain someone

the voice of which i can

never catch


under a moon’s melted

beam scarce few lit

the footsteps i truly

meant


moth stale

memory leafs there

thru’ the bronze and

quite broken corpses


yet another listening

month for the bare

boughs to approve

and winter to thicken


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