Loss makes life worth living, chasing
erasing stars and leaving desert nights in the solitude of light.
Digging deep, eternally at random spots, in the dark: both windy
and clear. Captured in an underground cave, lost in a spider’s
sense of hell that can forever deny ghosts and dreams
A eulogy to a city that is an adjective for a small town
A lost word that gravediggers bury yet graves do not hide
like alkaline attacks on a lone soldier litmus paper
My breath is a kiss, my words cliché and my life is a romance
Xena warrior, soft, divine and lovely to the core
as Lochness and its deep dark secrets; bugled by a pied piper
for watercress that grows at the edge of the bush at the end of the hill
unlike seagull songs that get closer to the sun before they die
the mother objects the heart’s desires and Seatoun is a sea of abstract noun and unease
into the bones: hollow dry and simply a part of history channel
killing blackberry cats, kissing blackberry cats and the black witches secret potion
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