I come here for the afterdark,
Not the aftermath.

I started this morning
Last night.

White on Hands

White on hands,
Thrown into the sky,
Falling like snow,
In childrens eyes.

Take my pot,
And boil the cold,
Away the water,
Lit the stories told.

Flint on air,
And soil to ground,
Sugar gone,
Without a sound.

And all laid bare,
Beneath the shoes,
Bones and breathe,
Fingers and toes.

Nothing at the Door

Making hands like fools,
Our colours shift as lies,
And cannot be turned off,
Like blue heard in the night.

In the faces we can't see,
The following results,
Sides that stir through company,
Exclamations ending sentences pre-built.

We say there's nothing at the door,
Although the knocking we can hear,
The crashing and the whistling,
Ignored like the tears among the years.

So when we answer noises,
That are true yet we mistrust,
Preparations are of little use,
And in all cases we combust.

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