a weighty fog

like tinned milk 

sweetly opaque 

hiding the feathers and tears

traces of a an empty place called

heaven.

 

these beads rest on hats

press down on weary brows and

weave between the fibres

of gloves

of family 

 

such a slippery thing, this life. 

like a rain you can't catch on your tongue 

but the taste weaves between your

thoughtful molars, all the same 

 

best to not spoil it with

the haunt of words. 

 

best to not spoil it with

the haunt of me.