if

tuesday is

easing

downward

becoming

greyness

in all its grey hours

here

about to

unravel its

palest of places

let song

fall from

its gargoyle

from its fountain

let words

bleed out

spoken and frayed

this -

grim as

morning

tries to blaze but never truly awake

there are

bells stopped

with pages

and dreams in

cuts, up in paper

flames

ask the boy

whilst stillness is

to wade thru

deep descending waists

---------

a hollow of

clearly the heart is

done, done with its

red museum-ness,

chambers of where faces

were hung in judgements

scars are roomy and

follows where past

houses them, some

are overlong, some

thinly cyclone thin ghosts

a pattern of words keep

on reminding, that loss

never gave love never

trellised quite right, what

was held never was bright

i keep my gazes back to

the stars, there is no stair-

way i know reaches there,

i would lose myself anywhere

often, as often as possible could

wood from the rose is

enabling its thorn, starts

aș a penknife then routs

until me as as hollow is

almost out