as quiet as a tree.
still we fumble fingers as we harp our strings attatched
to hithero one decade short
the moths behind the ears, our circus tent
as bent as we both willow with our yellow sprig of lime.
point-to-point through the glass eye of a jaw.
it is nine months since the pregnant one
suckled blood from the black doves breast
as it laboured love
and spat one thousand metaphors
as meaningless as dry grass with pretentious unaware.
what we lack we bake with powder.
show otherwise the stuffed dolls
that the dead now lean upon.
square-pegged the carpet roll
what mole has dared share secrets with the pocketbook and six?
there were never seven dwarfs for those who chose to count to ten;
what god provides both hand and foot?
we are all but one in an antique fair
shelling peas at our bald-head stalls,
written wills leave all but nothing else
to those who leap to laud
where love and logic mix more metaphors!
why are we cold?
we have warmed our wishbone, sheep and cow alike.
untouched but still we brighter
than than the bride that shares her kill.
if it be his will
who shall we say is calling us
to where the fire rests?