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I do not knowWhat colours are;They are beyondRich;Too thickTo frameIn the usualWords.They are more likeTexturesI suppose,ButMore tightlyWoven;So dense,That to see themIs to feel themIn yourMind.I don’t haveNamesFor touchLike that.

I saw itIn the park,LyingOn its backLikeAn old manSleepingOn the grass.PerhapsIt faintedIn the sunBecauseIts wooden ribsWere paleAnd warped-So wracked withTimeThey hardly fitThe painted frame.I remember it,Though,From better daysWhen I would shareMy eveningsIn its lap. I wonder,Did it finallyToppleOn its ownBeneathTired birdsSingingIn the treesAt the end ofDay,OrWas itThe silentVictimOf a needlessCrime:A senselessMuggingIn a parkGone grey? IDo…

SittingOn a cloudy porchI pressWhat wordsI still rememberAgainstMy skin, Although They no longer Keep meWarm;There is no sunNow… butI rememberThe tanThat used to wrapAround my faceIf I satToo longOutsideWith friends.I rememberWhenWe’d talkAnd laughTogether,Not on a screenButWatching each otherTrembleWhenA breezeChuckledIn our hair,And shadows,RealAnd solid,Chased us throughThe door.The worldWas filledWith dimensionsThen.NowIt flickersOn a phoneI dare notTouch,For fearOf…

Is thereNothingMore?OnlyThe soft whisperingOf yearsSneaking pastOn slippered feetLeavingMemoriesFloatingBrieflyIn their wakeLike dust?Did I hopeFor moreWhenThe marchBegan?Should I haveGuessed?AndWhen I wasYoungIfI hadGatheredTimeAnd pressed itIn a little bookLike flowers,Would itStillHave crumbledIfI’d kept the pagesClosed?Would itHave lastedLongerHad INeverPeeked?Now,I only seeThe ashesOf a fireExtinguished.What childKnowsTo saveThe air?Where isThe PhoenixNow?

As the daysFile pastLike old menLimping into church,I hopeMy forgivenessWill not moveAs slowly.I am beginningTo feel the rankI have beenAssigned:I am travellingAloneAnd yetNot by myself.In fact,I am gatheredLike flowers,And coloursI have not seenBeforeCaress my eyesAnd stroke my skin,Softly,Like my motherWhen I was young.I carry her giftOf petalsIn my my mind;I can neverReallyBeAlone.