Parading

You must offer her what’s left

fear of colour leaking from the heart; fear of internal avalanche; fear

we’re in the time the sun produced , or out of time

Adiós devil of rare delight

The stars who were created by words

I am a bush both of roses and forget-me-nots.

Soft as an ant’s patrol

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

Age swept past me

I need you