she asked about my heart, its evasive flight

Lark & Merlin:

drunk winds stumble over shuffling roofs

shake his sleep who dreams

a lost love

will not

let

go

recurring swirls

of old gold

blown light

you can’t help

but be in it

as it opens

and falls back on itself

unfolds and unsays

I do not want to die

without writing the unwritten

pleasure of water

Tom Pickard.