Good Morning, Small Lover

Seeds will blow across the dark garden. I’ll be putting on my goodbye hat. You will see autumn cleaning up summer, before the snow tries turning us into canvas, into painfully new.

I have not yet broken where I have been bent, but I expect one day, if soon is a small hour in the night, a candle swollen by its private longing to be bright, every sinew may dust itself of my blood, take soundless wing.

Until then, let’s walk, with the kindest smallest love we know, around;

Long roads sharp aching with no painters to retrace them,

The adult face turning innocent in a worn down bed like a baby recurring,

The new girl the new boy undoing the dullness from their bodies as otherwise the viscera moulded to the skeleton is impartial and so damn numb,

Frozen machinery putting its arm into the dark like a morning wide awake who cannot believe something so old can be so wrong,

And loving eyes the gentle brusher of a room,

A dead dog in a man’s arms like a child who never knew.