flowers in broken vases

Drunk from
Drinking the ink of your poetry,
The wingspan of my breath
Feather edges of the rising sky.
 
On edge of my waking dreams
I become a tree in Blue Mountains,
Through malevolent winters
My leaves are pressed into your mind-library.
 
Chiselled by the wind and collapsing rain
An owl beats in me like a thunderous heart,
My roots are in the five fields
Five oceans and seven continents.
Climb into my branches & consider only this:
I am on the horizon when you look back.
 
Sometimes, when
Rain arrows pierce haunted memory
It feels like time has forgotten me.
Sometimes,
I get mistaken for myself.
 
The assurance of the kettle boiling,
Radio voices within the wall
Dregs of wine in the cheapest glass
Tiny leaded windows of an insect’s wing.
Unto this,
Necks of the blue remembered hills
Fall asleep on my lap.
 
Carrying home within me
Free to roam no further  
Than second hand furniture,
Stained carpets and luggage
Packed with despair.
 
If the wheel had never been invented,
We would all become the crutches &
Love would be our feet.