No rain

I see the underbellies of birds, dark and undistinguishable feathers below the bursting but blue clouds.
The sky is without sunlight, the colour wrapping it is like the old womb of industry, revolutionary but past, the iron furnaces are gone. The air is untainted and silent. There is no chill or heat, neither fire nor ash. Only unwavering pleasant swirls of gusty drafts, painting the motions of a storm but never reaching one.

New paint

The way home; as the footprints taper
I see yesterday’s footprints
have collected rainwater

An argument
stitched together in pauses
and a flickering lampshade
all that remains is hate

The damp walls-
the smell of rotting paint
with every breath
sweats into me
a strange intoxicant
I am home again

Energetic sleep–
an errant twig scratching
the broken moonlight-etched window

I wish I dreamt
of an old photo, us
in an blur of star shine