haiku: for the scholar

All day you read such
Hightened prose, what might you think
Of my simple words?

I was on your floor, crying.

I was on your floor, crying.
You could not be more anglic
Locked around my waist, your cheek
On my thigh, all the strength of a child
In your clasp, your furious and silent love.
I am no child perhaps, but
The rounded toes of my plimsoles
are greyed and dulled by puddle-water.
We are soft small shapes.
And I perceive
There is more joy in us, that we
Have yet
have yet
to see.

almost haiku: autumn

Sea of sycamore
leaves, autumn's dying-ember
skin, still full of life.

Arrival

All of London drips off my bike helmet.
The city is one volume of rain, and it sparkles
Blitzingly under each streetlight.
It is 5.30am.
In your bed, in another city,
Your steady breathing is real
And I am cycling through your surreal dream.
The huge sycamoure leaves clop down
Like great nappies or artists's rags
Then reform in the streets, into hand-shapes
Palming the air that is
Just above the tarmak
Losely, like you might still hover
in the film of atoms
Just above my neck.

Crossing

I would like to use
Your pair of gold coins
To slick a cosmic
ferryman's palm.

The other shore so bright.

For SS

haiku: you have been and gone

You have been and gone.
I pull tight the sheets twisted
By our curling sleep.