You held on to your intentions where, out back, a gate is healing,
it has slept and soaked in rain and shine; urine and cliché, hands
legitimate as hooting children, illegitimate boots of thieves.

Unbookmarked, pick of black-eyed sisiphuses a'climbing
bayleaf-tree high but could only tumble over the broken mouldy roof tiles
then fall down the other side met by gentian violet locks soaking up the damp.

Door mouth, a sprig of mould on the walls of your face a bacteria
strengthening its hold it can be sterilised so easily, removed, the garden
always came inside like a friendly dog you let them go, outside.

The more you speak the more the words are releasing their meaning
even the ones you repeat as vows or fables to strengthen
go.

The town I move to when I die will be bleached and no one will bother
to repaint the fences or touch up the wooden walls, I shall sit
morbidly in the starving greenhouse, predict when you'll bring me coffee.

But it won't be much of a town, just a bit of rambling street,
off-cut of a DNA strand lost between the transition from life to life.

11/02/2006

Posted on 11/02/2006
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