Pissing against a lonely tree,
I look outwards,
sensing,
needing the bright wonder of stars.

The night is clear, all constellations.
The world is open,
the sky mine.

no.

The dark is an old sheet,
the stars cold as strip-lights.
Cold field under
indifferent sky.

no.

Go inside,
lights out,
bed.

Already Over

The black clouds we concede
today,

the black plaques by the road
and

black wine,

the taped-up defunct road-signs

are unrelated to the reason
we drive.
Both

black suited.

4:03 September Morning
(for K.C.)

Alone on the beach
skatey macbeth
sleeps
under a blanket of
stars.

Some stones are larger than her head,
some smaller.
She curls among them
like a feather in an eggbox.

The air is Lowland autumn,
beginning to turn.
In the restless tide
the stars twitch
like drums.

Cathedral

Soft, blunt, still speed.
The lights funeral sober.
Sky that blue outside.
Darkness rises, sliding into reflection.
Until the brakes’ long, high, hushed sound.