Poems

clothes on

with
      I don’t know how
      to talk to you
my clothes on

 

 

yoga

yoga,
said the teacher,
translating
a sutra,

is the mind
      focused
      on one
      thing
      alone

fingers
on keys
eyes
on screen

thoughts
      in the breaths
      that make a
      thing
      a poem

 

 

really

I
dreamed I
had a
stillborn
baby and it was
a baby girl but she
was just a

lump of
flesh really

and
my
mother had

organised her
into a box
with an address

label something like

To Death
15 Death
Avenue
Somewhere

poet's biography —>