1. Somewhere between the pavement and the sky these words write themselves
In a motion of awkward asymmetry
Hanging, laid flat
Notebook cover against pillow
Whilst thin wall breeze shoot conversations waft toward the page
And I'm thinking
"I have a great line with no where to stick it"
"I hate to owe people money but it seems to be something I'm getting good at"
2. And all that rush of creative blood
Effusing my hand and heart
Was but a flutter of ladybird's wings
Pretty easily missed
Like Turin river bank moments
Finished, colourful and catalogued
Dead with a plaque
And cheap pins right through them
I think I owe words more than that
My life, however, is not yet worth giving
Accruing as it has minimal interest.