Baby’s Breath


On rainy days

I give myself permission


To touch the glass

And see your remains:


Tissues, shadows,

All that is left


Of you.

Dancing with ghosts


Over dark hills.

Skylarks, old dear.


When I stand in your old room

I feel so sad that I masturbate myself.


Bees feast in tartan plumes,

Birds hanging on threads.


An old donkey hobbled

Into the mists.


Ring-a-ring-a-roses.

A pocket full of posies.


Your tiny hands tremble away

From my throat. Jack-daw.

Copyright © 1999-2017 Juked