BHAORMNE


I

a door-bang in wind hay-ghosts stacked on oak whiffs
of cow & horse sorts whiffs of dust & smudged light
gliding through slat-gaps gather in a gone & come

gather in specks of outside straw & grain bundles of
light store a blood of days in a wooden heart (in comes
field-riches out goes fragments of food) keep light dry

under a high roof a barn begins where endings are snapped
& draped & stacked amongst a leaking of light into a barn
a chicken picking for crystals in dust swallows in mud-

hands that grasp rafters swallows in mud-huts upside down
a barn throbs in a red light oak beams ring & resound with
past's saps a barn is a lap is a door ajar is a flapping yet

still in a wind where we begin


II

on her sofa on her back staring at home-parts fragments
of fractal love tiny homes within a home home's vast vast's
home she at ease to be knickerless or she may be dressed in
her best histories a tiny child's voice heavy and polished in floor

boards a glint of barn in her home's shine a conversion for
eternal cargo her hearth holds out its hot hand her hearth
holds a jewel of fire gleams through humans a voice of her tiny
child glitters on edges of ornaments that mean a handshake &
a kiss in her doorway cold beyond savoury smells within she

stares at her ceiling sugars are painted through its fascinating
cracks her house holdholds an old barn's cargos a greenery of
home-air a plant life unfurls from root to roof its eatableness her

home-food that feeds her sighs makes them fat with song a ling
ering within a home's moment a lengthening of a second years
ago a smell that makes a roof that bars time's rain yet allows
space to patter into her nostrils' caves into her brain's castle to

impregnate her untouchable soul's walls


III

a hearth holds door-bangs for wind ghosts
of hay stack jewels of fire cow-breath glows
through humans a tiny child's voice sorts
whiffs of horses smudged light on edges

of dusty ornaments a kiss in a doorway gathers
in come & gone specks of outside are cold
beyond light is kept dry within sugars a house

hold of cracks stores the blood of days riches
from fields stare at parts of home a barn begins
a tiny home within a vast castle she is knick

erless as endings snap a child leaks light into
histories a chicken picks heavy voices from
floorboards crystals in dust have a soft certain love

a barn throbs song oak beams ring a sound of a
second years ago a smell that makes a roof of past's
saps a door that bears time's rain nostril-wind

breath is where we begin







OUR SHOULLE

I

grey slates slight against raging sky yet our rain breaks
its back above us our chimney lets all our grey thoughts
escape and we are left with the orange-yellow of a yes
-terday our windows are not for letting our light in but

for keeping our dark out even without our curtains our
glass of our house only allows our light to be trapped yet
our house is our lamp each of us a filament of our house's

flame we wait for longing's moth to flutter at our windows
so our furniture can creak it's sympathy for things not done
that could've been our bricks are red always even beneath

our grey plaster our joists of our house once stood in
our forest our stone of our house once rested in our ground
water passes through our house via our cooking & our baths
how our house is taller than our sky it keeps out our cellar is so

dark but a beast in it sings our lullabies


II

a round voice in the bottom of an impossible tube is
nearly silent yet ticks away a shiny poem coils of a
whole other place pull me in it is thin in a last place
a shell makes so wide at first a thrush has smashed a snail

shell on a doorstep think of bricks think of your family
we always wonder why sky doesn't flatten a shell with its
simple vast coiled solid song song of wafer stone stone
that is a song a crab may live in an on & on song a snail

carries around exchanges for size & no size we do not live
in shells because our feet are too big they would not fit into a
tight pink compartment where a shell goes no further into
the round of all a world slates so slight against her round

voice bright raging sky with a rain in a bottom of impossible


III

thoughts escape leave us free and we are poem coils
of a whole i am left with an orange/yellow other place

pull me in i am right without curtains glass is smashed
on a past i am wrong part of a flame we are does not

flatten under dark a simple shell waits for longing coiled
solid flutters at our round window our furniture creaks

a song of stone sympathy for things not shell our bricks
are always red even beneath a sliding snail our house

once stood where we did not live & where once it did not
the stone of our house is thin shell because of our bare

feet we pass through our house via a tight pink tube
all our cooking & our baths are wall-less compartments

in a silent yellow of shell we are taller than what goes
no further into a round sky keeping out all a world

© Mark Goodwin 2005