Cycling downhill very fast
on a bicycle made of wood,
trees and houses rushing past.
 
Every breath could be my last,
wooden bicycles aren't that good,
cycling downhill very fast.
 
The front wheel shaking like a mast
in a storm, a raging flood,
trees and houses rushing past.
 
I think of wounds, elastoplast
and losing several pints of blood,
cycling downhill very fast.
 
In my face an icy blast
of freezing wind and bits of mud,
trees and houses rushing past.
 
By speeding lorries unsurpassed,

For Mary Sands, sometimes in the 1950’s
 
September and apples
like the last roses of summer.
On the way back from school
we find an orchard
with no house beside it.
We scramble though the hedge,
 
pick up windfalls, polish them
on sleeves, then getting braver,
shake the trees, climb them.
From the close-packed branches
we can see no people or houses,
it might as well be Australia,
 
the name we give it, imagining
the apples waiting for us, undiscovered.
We fill ourselves,
weigh schoolbags down

The dawn arises, silent shod.
We bow, then go our sep'rate ways.
Inspiring with her slightest nod,
The dawn arises, silent shod.
She works the sky; I work the sod,
Together till I end my days.
The dawn arises, silent shod.
We bow, then go our sep'rate ways.

He floats toward me
like debris from a Shreveport wreck,
and in a last ditch effort to ban his jetsam
from washing up on my shore and decomposing
on freshly clean sheets,
I create a profile before god and country,
list six things I could never do without,
six things I don’t know what to do with,
tap my keyboard three times and post selfies,
bait to catch the wandering eye
and the charms of a local Lothario,
a blitz flirtation that leaves me watching
Netflix on most weekends, stuffing my face
with cheese and crackers, did I mention

Too late, you have signed the deed,
when you hear a wailing in the cellar.
You find her blind and stubborn
as a root, naked, draped in old lace.
 
As you lift her through the trapdoor
the wind begins to pierce the eaves,
to fill the high and narrow rooms
with the reek of wood's damp rot.
 
She tells of the graves in the yard:
one cat, three dogs, a fetus.
She speaks of an empty carriage,
the rusty stain on the hall paper.
 
And while you are listening
you taste the dead hours and grasp
the worms' artless consummation:

          "and then he shut his eyes again
           as still as they had been before
           he said for me to run along
           and not to bother him anymore"
           - from 'HORSE' by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

so oft we forget when we talk to pets
(or to the animal kingdom et-al)

Plowing the pages of textbooks, Sali’s teenage sauntered away like a bull. Her breath smelling chewing gum still lingers in the solitude of his soul, but he’s forbidden to call up. His free bird’s died, getting a shock from the wire of life – worms of worries rot his mind.

She is waiting for dawn, When the dewdrops will sit On every blade of grass and the sky will be lit, With just enough light To see but not be seen, as she dissapears softly Just like a waking dream. She clutches her bag, Her hands start to shake. As the panic rises her will starts to break. Just a few minutes more, Another cup of tea Then she'll leave this sad life And finally be free. She stands at the door Breathing in the fresh air She know deep down Its the last chance if she dares. No more telling lies, No more scared for her life, No more breaks and bruises No more being his wife. Her