Insomniac
dawn coughs light
streaks the headache skies
too early
back to sleep
today the milk-sour mother
of tomorrow
illuminates curtain edges
with dust flowers
too bright
too early
blackbird alarm-calls fracture silence
turn over
back to sleep
in the young day light grows dense
arthritic clock hands
march on
come back night
back to sleep
the moon has lost its drapery
ghosted by brightness
white din
too early
hands that twist the bedsheets
check the clock
tick tock
turn over
light coughs sifts
through curtains
takes root
too bright
come back night
cars growl past
like the ebb and flow
of thoughts
wind-washed rain spatters
drums on glass
too much noise
too early
come back night
The Word Collector
Almost invisible ghost,
she hunts the early morning air
for a sliver of dream
floating down from
a just open bedroom window,
a catch of words in her throat,
wild and untamed.
Moon-eyed tempest-chaser,
deep as midnight,
as you pass in the street
she’ll sieve your thoughts
before they settle in your head
like river mud.
The soft murmuration of leaves
in glassy, backlit light
gathers in her mind
like the phantom faces
of the children she never had.
She scours the beach
for its salty trawl
of sea pottery and glass,
filleting words and histories,
panning for gold.
Words unfurl and are caught
in the curve of a shell,
the wind’s semaphore
in pollen-rich grass,
the moon tangled in trees.
Magpie-hearted collector,
words can never capture
the surging gold of sunrise,
or twilight’s indigo fall.
Fevers of the Mind 
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