To be a cloud-watcher

Sometimes I think I want to be like a sage,

a cloud-watcher,

a dog sitting by the bay—

a thing content to not partake;

Like a lazy fisherman untroubled by the day

a lizard bathing in the world’s ways

simple enough,

astute enough, 

to never watch,

but, only see;

to just be 

but, never really live.


Sleeping love

You’ve fallen perfect

composed in my sight

like a monumental piece of grain

a beautiful sage.


In my wicked greed, I want you to stay asleep.

From every direction I see,

every way I turn you,

you’re something I wanted, something I begged for

some day, some time,

down the line.



I can dazzle all the world’s love your way, but you won’t stay.

You’ll awake.


I know,

I know, that the thing that binds my sight

to you is your glorious flight.

Your wake.

You looking right through me

at something far,

somewhere I don’t belong.


I know.

I fear.

I feel.

It’s the only way.

So, my beauty, without me,

go sail away.


Image – The Sleeping Man of Oguri Kohei by Nemuru Otoko, 1996


Separation: day one

I made a plan.

A foolproof regime to surround myself with things

as delightful as ripe, red tomatoes bursting under laughing skin.

A perfectly plausible, markedly intelligent

logical thing.


I lined them one after another,

in a careful, well-thought-out sequence;

Books, burning questions, Earl Gray and full cream concoctions,

sad stories for bed, classic rock for Wednesday next-

no cracks, no slips, fucking perfection.


It’s two a.m.,

our bed is still soaking wet from before you left

and on it my plan has turned to glorious wilderness

of the way your arms weighed on my breasts.

Eight more days to forget.



Image – Michael Drummond