When we’re dark

When we’re dark
We turn inside
To the flask of light-
Stored up, precious well,
And our grief for its goneness keeps it alive,
And our thirst for its realness keeps us alive.
One day, we might
Find the real thing again,
Bigger, brighter,
Not in this glass cage of past, wrong, worn, torn, distance,
Time- removes and advances,
Not as we were; but could we want more?
We turn inside, but only to
The places where it wasn’t me, but you.

Fiddler of Words

I’m a Fiddler of Words;

Every note sounds different wherever you put
It, (you see?),
And sometimes it’s playful, it’s musical,
And that is the best it can be.

But other times they clang, they bang; they won’t
Do what I say. I try and fail,
Wrenching them high, twisting them dry,
And they’re frightfully fiddled, those words, for me.