They say “Corridor your plans for spring years.
Note the leaves trying hard to lie
low like your bare back on cut grass.
Keep carefully organised by filing away your hands.
Trust the structure, it knows what to do,
never stop blotting ink.”

Scrub your face, skin blue ink.
Morning threatens fallĀ into years
as early dust begins to settle. To always do
the same is a pensioned lie.
Find out if those hands
will clear the mirror – tear the light – grow the grass.

Stop qualifying. Seize mouths, grass
on those naive enough to think that digital ink
would destroy it all. Have them put up their hands.
Regret descends, the span of light years,
when you keep giving yourself the lie.
Whatever the future, if it’s different it will do.

Not a trick – think then do
the thing. Drink the dry grass
of the newest summer lie
to make it memorable and permanent. Ink
in myths of recent fears,
to touch the time which crawls through Air’s hands.

Your numbers on sheet/screen areĀ underhand,
“We cannot be seen to be pressing undo.”
Measure millenia brick-by-day-by-year

but gorgeous thoughts. Have no alibi –
never keep it all “in-hand”.
The rooms in that house to come are invisible ink,
will reveal themselves as we don’t and do,
magical like unmisting glass.
There will be years.

Now is not the time for the long lie or the “I do”.
Wires, tendril hands, are optic grass
Which run – down fingers – as ink – as warmest tears.