Roads that vanish.

I pull the pillow towards me,

Trusting in the gush

From heavy temples;

In the silvery lines

Which guide me back

And glide my laughter

With my brother’s

At the table’s rumble.

 

In any town, and sharply

In this one - a man smiles

At the ground and gestures

His lost word through the air

To his brother, who mimes

A swallow in return.

Oh, the love may be great

But the jaw aches.

A brick is extracted

From a mural of clouds

And they settle back

In their bottles to snore.

 

A sweeping cliff presents

My own brick, the rough-cut failure

Of gasping, discoloured hands.

And I pray with those men

That we be scooped, up and away

Where smells are spoken,

Immortalising waste

In the only place of grace:

The threads of webs

Flushed in time as drawn.