a small handful.

I'm posting these together: early this month, I decided to only write forty-words-or-less poems for the rest of the year. I need to become more succint, and recently had read some beautiful lyrics, yet so short and clear, written by a friend.

9th November
something bright.

When the bulb decayed,
its roots all withering;
when rain upon rain
spoke to terracotta,
cold with age—
how could I replace
or discard it?

There will be new flowers,
planted in old pots.
Springtime will watch.


12th November
silhouettes.

Shadows spilt
long, through darkborn
morning; gentle gold beyond.
High-hung, bright hot sun
another hour.

Time collapses into time,
like love.

Silhouettes mark moments
still as hope, stir
under mystery rising:
pieces like a puzzle,
like the sky.


15th November
remembered.

We’ll creep inside,
and feel too small

for beauty so strong.
Words can’t clasp the sound,

or colours the size.
It feels like something given.


19th November
enough.

I swim in many rivers,
quietly.

Over the way
is the deep, where
one day
they all will run together,
wearing salt.

Often I wander there,
among the ancient ocean.


19th November
a brighter lamp.

Apart from the things we said,
and try to forget—just
listen. Stop the clock,

unwind or bind
its hands
(for now).

Hear the sound still
falling, unmeasured
by such movement;

let us enter
silently.
We’d rather just prove you.


27th November
reclaimed.

How long will you stare at light
that appeared too late,
or mourn for what was held,
remade, before you were born?

There is nothing in you
that love hasn't answered for.
Everywhere you've been,
still he lingers.