Corn Fields

Because I am bad at life,
I have been lucky to survive
all this time. Though, driving
between the fallow fields
east of Flamborough Downs,
and see that, since I’ve
come back, they have turned from black
to green, I consider the path
bruises take when blood
beneath the skin
ruptures and is trapped, and that yellow,
you know, can sometimes
be sweet.


I stand outside your house, thinking
we could take a walk tonight.
The only signs of winter are your broken
concrete steps. And the cracks on my lips.
Instead, we go back inside; the living room.
Still, you look at the glassy outside,
and stare through the window versions
of you and I. We’re not who we are; you’re
elsewhere; you won’t hear what I’m about to ask:
Do you remember our trip last year
through Saskatchewan, that train, you said,
long as the prairie night?
It’s somewhere in your dark mind, too, isn’t it?
So quietly it’s travelling, yes?
Let’s wait here, then. If I don’t, and turn away,
I’m afraid I’d turn into something else:
a blur of breath on glass; and on it
a bird black as a comma
in a plain’s low sky.

ph, 17/1/17


Birds collapse into whips, burst into galaxies.
Everywhere is somewhere else; trees
that stitched together fields admit
they are legs of the wind’s mane
and hooves of planted storms.
A horse takes off, welts of snow on its back.
I ride for a while, holding on to what is left of me.

– ph 13/2/17