For Matthew, with Tea and Cigarettes

Playing to wait
with sugar-
a sunken
melded mess
in tea forgotten...
till the mornings early lights
reddened curtains
bathe us all orange,
for Winters first days.

I believe not:-
that this shall be the last
turn of Autumns
yet to come.

A Chorus of Quiet Kettles in Red Kitchens

I lie
not sleeping
and wonder why
we save these words
just
for bedtime:-

when
Nothing will come of this

Seeing things Were Potential Fails

Of a time where violet were eyes
I imagined coats hanging on doors
with faces.

I kept my distance
waiting;
as you spoke to them.