The world refuses sleep

Tide and time have laid their dust on,
seeds beget vines and the garden
turns full with waylaid words
as reckless and sugar spun as ivy
yawning its way up the three o’clock sun.

Scraping up the humus and knots and
cross-hatched pulleys gathered over months
it is easy to believe this is a second story.
The world refuses sleep
dreaming in bursts of ever and always.

Hours yank themselves free and
a thought you had
tilts its head and flees.
It will come back, you know,
or some other seed its place.

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Wild things

drinking in wild things and light
everything the colour of cymbals
urging winter into memory ground

ink of the first geranium
anthem bursting in rhythm
of sweeping daylight

rituals from the roots
of melody born
in vines the shape of longing

enough to hear the shade
pressed between quivering leaves
thoughts still wild and ripe and free