I want to see how you might break

a butterfly on its back


press its wings into pages which crave

your story, which call 


for you peel off its scales like petals. 

A measured voice that


inscribes those glossy lights as if 

born from hand –


we’re sat on the edge of the grate,

those iron bars bending,


and layered, a path we never

travelled now reformed.


We share whispers and a soot mirage:

two empty cans 


rattle with our voices, a chiming arrangement,

ourselves as hands, 


our feet in lines, meet eyes, roaming in circles: 

become pretty 


thoughts streamlined, pretty thoughts on

an amber string 



Mountain View

Children, like seven high rise buildings (i)

against a white board, strung along. 

Say I want to be 


your pretty thoughts fettering your neck 

and ankles.