a golden moon

a golden moon peers,

skin becomes translucent,

inner workings now revealed.

and we realise 

that for you, 

just like for all of us:

everything has fallen apart 

off sick

light fights its way through

unbleached white linen 

wallowing in silver grey 

dull golden sheets drape 

bitter spaces in between ribs 

just realised they exist at all

sleep: a cruel distant star

in an invisible heaven. 

Goldfish

underwater

whole sentences 

encapsulated 

in air 

no one hears

just a fish 

saying nothing 

the machine

this machine 

doesn't do

what I think it does

I guessed incorrectly

at the design

and can't make sense of the flaws

although I know that they are there 

the manufacturer was not to blame

nor the original owner

it was hired out: the machine,

to inexpert hands

they wished nothing more

than to examine the workings

and delicate parts 

for reasons I still can't tell. 

it strikes us now

that though irretrievably flawed 

the idea of the machine itself 

is the most beautiful thing 

that ever was. 

buoy

there is a buoy:

even in tides,

evocative of apocalypse.

it never sinks

life is too tempting,

too basically interesting (sometimes)

which makes it 

utterly impossible

for me to submit 

Eggshells

dignity implodes

bare humiliation blooms

and then I remember in my daze:

"It's not about you"

forgiveness swoops in

gallantly sweeping horrors aside

leaving only 

the well marked broken eggshells

you carelessly trod on.

those and spilt milk

I still cry over it, though:

the milk.

and then I pick up the eggshells.

I glue them together 

for witches to make boats of

in which they will endeavour 

to sink my ship some other day. 

 

the golden amber pause

slender fingers unbind 

knotted formality

unpacking hours

filing away the day 

awkward little feet 

reside adjacent

wriggling some rhythm

but never keeping time 

at some point

the universe resumes 

all concerned will mourn 

the golden amber pause