When I try to replace you
with another thought,
you say to me,
I could try being
that small fox you saw this morning,
hurtling from the woods.
Then, when I notice,
through the gravel smoke,
that you’ve spotted me again,
I’d ricochet back
into the forest
of your mind.
Tag: #writing #poetry #poem
It doesn’t
It doesn’t matter what you lost.
It’s the manner in which you did.
As if love were actually a skin,
Not a coat whose pockets
Ceased to become pockets,
A material closed around hands,
But, then, an opening.
Isle of Hoy 