intolerable

the stains that blot
your shadow, the X,
a tilted cross that windmills
through most lies and doubts

the smile,
pinned wings—

curtains in a state of severe distress.

no author, not even one
who understands harmony
in death, can heal

the cuts you hardly meant.

each dream brings me

further away than
I could have imagined

all that fear
rolled into a winter ball

hard, precise
bowled between your elsewhere eyes

all those shapes

traced lines,
gaunt reapers of bone and gold,
let us mine

these fallen shapes
crisp under heel

memories with the sheen
of shadow sculptures

near shore, upon lawn
loyalties must be drawn.

meet no evil

your breadcrumbs harden,
stone pellets that dream
of sea glass

voyages tossed
from shelves where evil
is a neighbour who calls
himself uncle in a truce
of pit and bone.