Two Poems

On Jasmine - 10th May 2020

She washes eleven leaves, and thinks of her sister. 

In the nearly detailed day, in the crook of the moon

she makes her hair and ties a ribbon about her waist. 

And the sky deletes the roof commands

the air to halt, and you are sad. 

But listen little sister we're going to Ithaca soon

in the dawn of our dreams, the hermitage sky 

of  exhaustive moons I will put on my skirt 

and go on strike again. And the strike will be 

for the dead of each hour and I tremble with fear

when I speak my words are scratching the sky

and I leak as I helplessly stir in the water. 

Eleven rotates, of our tiniest days, the palaces sway

and the huge collapse of the furnace, the arcane

flume, the water tight doors icunen to the stoop of a sea.

The wands await, she says, and the evening flowers away.

Jew Street to Foundry Street - 7th May 2020

We'd into the world the screaming feet of geese

the flight from a  sky would burn here stop. 

Soft our dappled frequency. We would as if 

already bond,  supposed to as be working these 

accomplice burners dark  and it is stop. It is

Wednesday I’m attacked I go to Jew Street stop.  

My body is held there to speak of a sky 

against the grounded, in the Foundry on fire

as if in no-place would burn; here to speak to go 

to the second rate work, stop. Home in heady bliss 

to slip in the hatch and dissolve to open nightshade.

Reluctantly to sleep then to accrue the vicious day. 

The sinking sailboat of our stop. Wednesday we go 

back for you, we go another way. In case the hissing

town-street, stop. on fire. There is a jut.

There is a beauty juts the middle of the week is now on fire

we meet in unallowed so not too out the burner. Stop. 

Now for the jetstreams, hillgoast, esplanade.  

Present day gone past to find away, a cute come back

Wednesday come back Wednesday come back Wednesday.