A shadow comes to play, a dusty hallway in the day. All a sudden a shape, stuff full, seams bursting and buttons come away.

That scratch on a leather spine, a straight line; an echo of a star that smells like salt. One glass face with a cracked cheek. And the space a plant leaves behind.

Here to one side, it presses on closed eyes: that hint of life.

Steam presses on the glass, and the flowers sing as they’re pulped. Oil clings to the silver lining.

Concoct and decant: then from the bottle comes a drop of liquid crystal.

Taste us in the stain of herbs mashed underfoot. See us as a punch of colour, bright behind closed eyes.
Smell the cut-flower vase: it’s us,
relaxing into throes of scented death.

We are an impossible essence. And somehow we are here, in vert syrup, in solid fog suspended.

Lights in the mist turn silkweight shadows silver, and the air is warm and wet as a mouth. Held up in this bright black night, all tendon-tight, I wait

(and with our chests pressed, my own one, and with our cheeks flush it will be violet, and mud, and the salt of a star)

for when we’re here together, even skin won’t separate us. I won’t know where I end and you begin.

One swollen pouch, smothered under silkweight, sheltered from the heavy smoke. Stranger wealth, never been seen; a sigh fogs up the moonlight as the night comes bearing down.

Look! The air breathes heavy with life, and a cry comes rich and riotous, from salted lips that speak, lips all chapped by the days.

Here is the promise of an unfamiliar seed, seeking skin.

In the white heat of an empty day sits a boy with a secret. He whispers, proud, into the wind: here it is. But in his hands is dusty nothing, and arch feet glance harsh as they pass.

The problem is with parched eyes. Look into his: he might look back; and shimmer-soft, a mist may come, and you’ll see such a gasp of green – and steam–

Damp a curve of glass; you’ll make a mirror.In his herb-dirt eyes I saw the world in wet: here is the misted echo of that bright black forest.

On the fog the white birds fly; between us, the lake, the wet crystal of an eye. Now you’re lost, she will always cry. And on the swell the night is falling, while silver silk-lights rise in the sky.

When young and bright, we used to lie, we were taught to blink to make the tears go dry.

And now we have, and here we are, a black fringe of feathers, stuck together in sadness, forever ready to dive

Lilith Doll

In a quiet room, cut flowers die smiling in a vase. Hung tight to the wall, each stroke a sigh, a lost face is painted on linen. And on a table is the forever child.

She waits in dusk, captured with the others in the half-light. Her cheeks are soft and pale and the light escapes her eyes. She holds her breath.

Here she is: she is a perfect thing. And she will stay that way, unless you let her flicker into life.

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