Author: G H

I is the lot, the whole parts yard, step forward U onto river ice, she’s tricky this bridge, always out of season, thaw in February, freeze on Labour day, some days on all banks slipping down to the one current

goodbye old long worst friend overextending my welcome and hastening my stooped exit, you were a bright face at the start but now your jutted jaw is embedded in my chest, reeling me closer to the hole like a prize catch in ideal overcast

drift overland like a warming hand, apply pressure on the right conversation notes to melting earth, listen to us talk it up, degrees tacking towards the ceiling in our dim corner of the bang

there is no write in the respiration of nature / bluster and thrum polishing holes over holes / colour sinking into the fall’s floor / that speak death well / frost pointed to an invisible pin pricking all our angles

and is today, today? low long makes for vanishing tides drawing away crumbs, scraps, shreds from the mouth waiting on the beach to draw up sea, at least the shimmer of the surface for conversation starter

set your children free to eat road salt and sniff quarry dust, post their electrolyte levels on windmill billboards, rate their freedoms rank and filed source open, erring on the side of capital optimism and how do you taste?

over under heeds siren’s wail, tail in mouth again consuming the world, spitting up a theory for the mind’s small plate, microwaves for colossus’s meal, hungry for everyman

the end is complete, blue jays return to greyscale, the moon turns away, waves bow down, snow opens the doors, whisky shuts up, dogs point to the cliff, and the heart that stopped, speaks finally

light is easy, it’s the tattoo of steps behind still thudding that should be the edge we sleep on, squatting for tomorrow

one finger for all lifting up litter passed down from generations of hoarders and garnishers, sharpen that gesture to poke a hole in filmy past tense, one root was not enough and here we tilt